


I Know What You Did

by Darksidekelz



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:22:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hundred years ago, the Combaticons committed an unspeakable atrocity.  Today, they will pay for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Peace for a Criminal

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a long-running mystery story with these guys for awhile now. I have an ending in mind, but the path is still a mystery. As such, I will be updating the tags as-needed. The setting is an AU based on G1.
> 
> I'm hoping this will be a lot of fun!

Praxus was a surprisingly good city for business.  Sure, it had always carried the image of pristine totalitarianism – the home of the Enforcers, of the most uptight mechs on the face of Cybertron.  And yes, everyone had laughed when Swindle had voiced his intentions to open shop there.  ' _No one_ _will buy from you.'  'You'll be arrested in a week.'_ Well, the laugh was on them!

As it turned out, Praxus had _quite_ the seedy underbelly.  The thing about living in a society with such strict enforcement of moral purity, meant that there were a lot of folks bursting at the seams, overflowing with the urge to meet their base desires.  Lust.  Violence.  Greed.  And Swindle was right there, offering goods from far off lands – goods that could not legally be purchased in the glistening city.  Weapons, augmentations, investments in off-shore bank accounts, the works.

He had to operate in secret, of course.  That was nothing new.  Swindle had alibis, he had contingency plans, he was prepared to pack up and be gone in the blink of an eye.  But he was confident things wouldn't come to that.  His best clients had significant wealth, and where there was wealth, there was power, and where there was power, there was an ability to skirt the guidelines that kept the common citizen confined to a slavish existence.  Swindle had connections.  Swindle had the latest in tech and gadgetry that could protect him from ne'er do wells.  And most importantly, Swindle had a brain.  He was set.

Or so he'd thought.  But when two old friends from a life he'd rather keep forgotten walked through his door, he knew that the fledgling empire he'd worked so hard to build was no more.  Damn the both of them!

"Swindle," the first mech, an unsettling rotary named Vortex, cooed into the empty room.  "Where are you?  We've come to visit!"

The ground-shaking steps of a lumbering tank, Brawl, were close to follow."We know you're in here, so stop hiding!"

Like hell.  Swindle had avoided these guys for a hundred years.  He wasn't about to go back.

"Hey Brawl, check this out!"  Swindle did _not_ like the cheery tone in Vortex's voice.  He knew that tone.  That was his 'stupid copter' voice, as Blast Off had nicknamed it.  _'I'm so dumb and helpless.  I just don't know_ what _I'm doing!_ it would say, right before tearing out all of a bot's most closely-guarded secrets, turning said bot inside-out, then leaving them for scrap with laser-guided precision.  Swindle tensed, processor frantically trying to plan three steps ahead of whatever Vortex was scheming.

"Should you be touching that?  It looks dangerous."  Brawl said. 

 _Oh no_.

"Can't be dangerous if he left it sitting on the desk right?"  There was a soft scrape of metal, and a glub of confined liquid, as Vortex lifted the item from the counter.  Frag.

 _"_ Oh scrap!" 

Swindle heard the flailing that accompanied the frantic cry, and dove from behind the counter to catch the fragile container of enhanced nucleon before it hit the floor, taking the whole damn shop out in a spectacular ball of fire, along with everyone in it.

"Oh, Swindle!  Fancy seeing you here!" he laughed, completely unfazed by the death he had narrowly-escaped.  "I thought you were out," and then, in a colder voice, added, "One might get the impression you were avoiding us."

Swindle crawled back to his feet, depositing the container safely back on the counter and dusting himself off.  "Vortex, please.  Why would I want to hide from your lovely face?  You know you're one of my favorite customers."

Vortex said nothing, watching Swindle with scrutinizing optics.  Brawl, however, had a few things to say.

"The game's up Swindle.  We worked damn hard to track you down.  Pack up your things; you're coming back to Kaon with us."  His demand was slightly weakened by the stutter in his voice.  It seemed he _was_ , in fact, unsettled by the near-miss.

"Brawl, you know I love you (you're turret's looking bigger than usual!  Did you upgrade it?  If not, I've got something for ya), but you know Onslaught owes me big time.  Unless he's gonna pay up, I ain't gonna do a thing for him." 

Orange optics flickered behind their visor, head shifting slightly in an effort to eyeball the turret on his back.  "Bigger?  You could do that?  More firepower?" and then, he shook his head.  "Wait, you're trying to distract me!  I wasn't born yesterday, Swindle.  I can see when I'm being swindled!"  He stomped the ground, punching his fist in a threatening display.  Swindle flinched, inching back towards his counter.

"Brawl you oaf!  I'm not trying to distract you.  I'm trying to make a profit.  There's a difference!  Actually, you could probably make some big bucks in Praxus.  Tanks aren't common up here.  What's Onslaught paying you anyway?"

Brawl hesitated.  "What's he . . . paying me?  Uhh."

" _Swindle_ ," Vortex chimed in, stepping closer.  "Where do you get this idea that Onslaught owes _you_?  We always paid you on time.  We even let you use our facilities, and if memory serves, Onslaught was manufacturing weapons for _you_ to sell.  If anything you owe us."  He tapped his fingers together in quick succession.  Swindle forced himself to not retreat a step further.

" Damage to my name and reputation, not to mention emotional scarring.  Do you know how hard it was to get work after what you guys did back then?  I had to travel halfway across the globe just to get my foot in the door."  He reached behind himself, under the pretense of casually leaning back on the counter.  His hand found the nucleon container.  He may have to use it after all.

"Incidentally," said Vortex, making his way to a display to idly examine the wares, "that's actually why we're here.  And we're not leaving without you.  So, if you're not gonna come willingly . . ."  He turned on his heel in a sudden motion, a demented look in his optics.  "Brawl?"

Brawl charged forward, arms out, ready to grab the much smaller mech, and poor Swindle, backed into a corner, did the only thing he could think to do.  He grabbed the container of nucleon  and flung it as hard as he could at the incoming mech, taking the half second he had left to dive behind the counter.

The explosion shook the shop, smashing shelves, blowing out glass, and sending poor Swindle crashing into the wall.  But he was able to recover quickly enough.  He stumbled to his feet, taking in the sight of his burning, ruined shop.  It was physically painful to think of all the money he'd just lost, but at least he was smart enough to scatter his goods between multiple warehouses.  Besides, one look at Brawl gave him some peace of mind.  That broken, battered mech would not be causing him any trouble for a long time.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Vortex.  He'd been hurled into the same display he'd been admiring before, shelves collapsing on top of him, leaving a number of massive, bloody dents in his plating, but dazed though he was, the bastard remained awake.  Pit, knowing Vortex, he was probably enjoying it.  Sicko.

"Swindle," he giggled, an eerie, manic noise.  "That was the wrong choice."

And trapped beneath that wicked red gaze, Swindle did the only sensible thing, and panicked, switching to alt mode and bolting out the door.  The helicopter was quick to follow, the roar of its blades a constant reminder that Swindle was a few meters away from a very horrific fate. 

Vortex had fewer obstacles to contend with up in the air, was faster than Swindle, more maneuverable than Swindle.  Really, Swindle's only advantage was the fact that, if Vortex wanted to catch him, he would have to join him on the ground.  On the bright side, the psycho copter hadn't opened fire yet.  But who knew how long that would last?  Swindle needed a way out.

He took a sharp left turn, and put on an extra burst of speed.  The transit tunnels shouldn't be too far from here.  If he could reach them, then Vortex would have no choice but to pursue on foot, and while Vortex was the better fighter, Swindle had the better toys.  He could shake him if he just reached the end of the . . .

Two missiles burst forth from above, flying at the tunnel entrance, Swindle’s salvation, and demolishing it.  Evidently Vortex had come to the same conclusion.  On the bright side, the assault had provoked widespread panic.  Praxian civilians fled in every which way, creating a nice blanket of chaos for Swindle to hide in.  If only his yellow paintjob didn’t make him stand out so much in a sea of mostly whites and grays.

Also working in Swindle's favor, Vortex had made himself a huge target, and Praxus was not known for showing mercy to criminals.  If Swindle could keep him in the air for long enough, he would surely be shot down.

He turned another corner, zipping into an awning-covered alley, fully aware that the cover wouldn’t protect him for long.  His pursuer had already proven he was willing to use deadly force.  All bets were off now.  It  _did_ , however, give him an opportunity to test his new electronic paint applicator.  It worked flawlessly, allowing him to blend in more easily with the popular Praxian paintjob.

Overhead, the roar of rotors remained a menacing presence.  It was time to go.  One more burst of speed had him popping out the other side of the street, and though they hesitated for a moment, the sound of those rotors was quick to catch up.  That was fine.  Swindle had another plan.

The next street he turned onto was narrow, lined on either side with skyscrapers that would have been a nightmare for any flier to navigate around.  Ordinarily traffic would have been overwhelming, but the assault on the nearby tunnel had done an excellent job of clearing the streets, granting Swindle further maneuverability.  He took the opportunity to drive the entirety of the twisting neighborhood in a number of wide circles, taking glee in the many near-collisions the copter encountered in his effort to keep up, all spotted from his rear-view mirror. 

But his luck didn’t last for long.

Another missile strike destroyed the smooth road ahead, and Swindle had been moving too fast to dodge the shrapnel, the fire, the treacherous ground.  His front tire hit a twisted slab of metal, and he went flying, losing his disguise and his transformation in the process.  The hot ground greeted him like a literal punch in the face, and he skidded for several feet after making contact.  Vortex was going to pay for that.  No one would buy from a mech with a broken smile.

Vortex was directly overhead now, and slowly descending on his position.   _Get up, Swindle!  You can’t let him bring you in!_

And then, once more, the sound of missiles.

For once, fortune was smiling on Swindle.  The copter above him gave the most delightful shriek of pain and surprise as they made contact, blowing his frame apart, sending what was left of his reverted root mode into the side of a nearby building.  It was unlikely to kill him, but it certainly didn’t look very fun.

Swindle, meanwhile, took the opportunity to get the scrap out of there.  If the Enforcers caught him, there would be questions.  And if there was one thing Swindle hated, it was questions. 

He drove for miles, away from the chaos, away from the crowds, to an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town – a safe house he’d set up for just such an occasion as this.  He had plenty of extra product tucked away inside, and had paid good money to the local corrupt authorities (there were  _always_  corrupt authorities), to keep the public from snooping.  Praxus had been a gold mine, but Praxus had been compromised.

He’d start afresh somewhere else.  Even Onslaught would have difficulty getting Vortex and Brawl back once the Enforcers got a hold of them – especially after what they’d pulled today.  And he’d be more careful next time.  Onslaught was powerful, but he wasn’t omnipotent.  Swindle had worked hard to get away from the creep and his sick henchman and dangerous organization.  He wasn’t going back for all the shanix on Cybertron. 

Well, maybe  _all_  of the shanix, but no less than that!

The sound had been gradual, slow enough to work its way into the category of ‘ambient noise.’  Swindle hadn’t noticed it at first, the dull hum, building in intensity, growing louder, stronger, angrier – the exact sound of a charging, high-powered orbital laser, now that Swindle thought of it. 

By the time he had realized, it was too late.

The warehouse exploded, the orbital strike reducing it to rubble, and reacting with assorted product to intensify the blast.  Swindle was sent flying once more, this time, the force enough to disrupt his internal systems, and jostle even his spark chamber out of place.

He hit the ground hard, half a mile from the blast’s target, head spinning and body feeling two hundred times too heavy.  His audials had been blown out, his vision reduced to a staticky, pixelated flicker of light, visible from only his left optic.  Damage reports told him that he’d lost an arm somewhere along the way – not that he would have known. He was too damaged to feel a thing. 

Pit, he barely registered the large brown form descending upon him from on high, like some kind of silvery-eyed Prime of legend.  He wasn’t quite aware that he was being scooped into strong arms until he was already up, a scant few feet away from that godly face.  Hmm, Blast Off had nice features. 

And that, much to his chagrin, was the last thought he registered, before his processor gave up altogether. 

_Stasis Lock: Imminent._

 


	2. Day 1: Bribery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onslaught struggles to get the old team together after receiving a letter from a mysterious source.

Onslaught was not in a good mood.  He sat at his desk, covered in precisely-organized stacks of paperwork, which he had been engrossed in right up until the news broadcast began.  A frantic newsbot, juxtaposed over the smoking rubble of the Praxian tunnel system,  was currently relaying the story of the hour, while Enforcers stood bye in the background, discussing private matters amongst themselves.

"Nobody knows what the terrorists wanted, though there are numerous reports of the helicopter chasing down a Nyonese immigrant named Swindle.  Authorities have been unable to locate this Swindle, but the rotary responsible for the downtown bombings has been apprehended, as has a tank believed to be an associate."  Onslaught squeezed the cube in his hands until it cracked, dripping thick, warm high grade down his fingers.  "There is no word yet on the mech responsible for the Sixth District warehouse bombing, or whether the events are related.  More will be known as the story progresses."

Vortex was dead.  Not yet, of course, but he would be once Onslaught got a hold of him.  What part of 'don't draw attention to yourselves' did he fail to understand?!  Of course, it was his own fault for trusting Vortex and Brawl to be discreet on a mission.  Now two members of his inner circle were locked up in a top-security Praxian prison, and they'd made such a mess of their mission that getting them out would be more than a matter of just dropping his name and bribing the Councilman.  Idiots.

And he _would_ have to get them back.  Vortex, he trusted not to let anything too important slip, but Brawl was not half so good at holding his tongue.  And he had a feeling the Enforcers would pick up on this too.  Primus, how could this situation get any worse?

Well, Blast Off was fine, at least.  He'd apprehended Swindle, and gotten the frag out of there like a good sweeper ought to.  At least there was _one_ mech Onslaught could count on.  He could only hope this whole damn operation was worth it in the end. 

Swindle had been an associate a hundred years ago, and a loose one at that.  When he'd left after the last big fiasco, Onslaught had let him.  It didn't matter.  Swindle was good at his job, but there were always other merchants.  The Combaticons had gotten by.

And yet, here he was, an entire century after he'd bid farewell to that irritating little con-artist, kidnapping him for his own damn protection.  And by Swindle's protection, he of course meant the protection of him and his.  Swindle was easily bought-off, and not particularly resistant to torture.  If he fell, they all would.  And thus, keeping Swindle safe was high on Onslaught's list of priorities.  What a pain.

He reached into his desk's hidden compartment, and pulled out the data pad, the message that had started this whole damn mess.

_Onslaught,_

_I know what you did.  You and Swindle, Vortex, Blast Off, and Brawl.  You're guilty.  And I'm going to prove it to the world.  And then, I am going to make you suffer.  Each and every one of you – just as I have suffered.  You'll wish you had died a hundred years ago, with_ him _.  That I promise you._

_Resolve your affairs now.  You have seven days._

It wasn't hard to guess which event the stranger referred to.  But Onslaught couldn't figure out who this mech could have been for the life of him.  All witnesses had been disposed of – Vortex had seen to that.  And though discretion wasn't the copter's strong suit, no one could deny that he was thorough.

But the mech's identity, though a high priority, was still not at the top of Onslaught's list.  What were they going to do once he finally managed to get the team back together?  This stranger seemed convinced that he could destroy them in seven days.  But surely that was impossible!  Onslaught was the head of the most powerful crime syndicate in the southern hemisphere, and among the top on Cybertron.  He was untouchable, and his protection was nearly as good as a military escort.

What kind of mech had bearings big enough to threaten _him_?  And did he truly have the means to back up the claims?  Onslaught already had his men tracking down the source of the message, but there had been no luck thus far.  No matter.  They would soon enough; he trusted them.  They were loyal, they were intelligent, they were reliable, and they wouldn't fire missiles into bustling public facilities in _broad daylight_!

He _really_ hadn't needed Vortex to fuck everything over in Praxus.  What was _wrong_ with that mech?

A sharp ping hit his audial, signifying that he was receiving a comm.

_"Boss, I'm on my way back.  I've got Swindle, but it looks like Vortex and Brawl were snagged before I could get there."_ Ah, Blast Off, the only mech Onslaught could trust.  Even he wasn't beyond reproach, however.

_"What happened out there, Blast Off?  Why are two of my mechs incarcerated, and why for the love of all that makes sense, did Vortex think it would be a good idea to open fire in a public area?"_

There was a pause on the other end.  " _Err, I don't know_ what _Vortex was thinking Sir.  Who does?  All I know is, the plan was to drop them off in Praxus.  They'd swing by Swindle's, convince him to come back with us.  Evidently, he put up unexpected resistance."_

_"Because you let Brawl and Vortex grab him you dolt!  There are some things you just can't trust them for."_ He cut himself off.  Yelling at Blast Off wouldn't solve anything.  There was no changing what had already been done.  _"Look, just bring Swindle here.  I'll figure out what to do with those two later_."

" _Yes Sir!  I'll be there in a few.  Blast Off out."_

Onslaught sighed and reorganized his stacks of data pads for the third time.  The control he held over Blast Off was limited at best.  Vortex was with Onslaught because he had nowhere else to go, and Brawl was in a similar boat, but Blast Off was _rich_ , Blast Off had status!  He could have a life outside of Onslaught based on his alt mode alone. 

Blast Off worked for Onslaught because he wanted to.  And the moment he stopped wanting to, he would leave.  And unfortunately for Onslaught, Blast Off was his right hand, the most responsible, reliable mech under his command.  They'd served together in the Quintesson wars, and he had stuck with Onslaught afterwards, upon Onslaught's request.  Blast Off was not a mech Onslaught could afford to lose.  And that was why he needed to take extra care when it came time to dole out discipline, to keep their relationship on good terms.  It was all rather tedious.

Onslaught had reorganized his desk another four times by the time Blast Off arrived.  He could hear the struggling, complaining little mech from down the hallway, threatening litigation, claiming to 'know a guy,' and generally grunting and shouting and making a fool of himself.  This was a headache in the making.

When Blast Off finally came through the door with a flailing Swindle in tow, Onslaught was ready.  He had prepared what he was going to say, he had prepared what he was going to do, and he'd even prepared a transfer of some cold hard cash, should that fail.  Now all he needed was Swindle's attention.

"Swindle," he greeted, as though to an old friend.   Swindle ignored him, however, his attention wholly consumed by Blast Off.  It was irritating for Onslaught, but the situation was not unsalvageable.  Instead, he turned his optics to his more loyal companion, his voice dark and commanding, though his words were sparse.  "Blast Off."

It was a testament to their relationship that Blast Off understood the meaning behind those two words.  He dropped Swindle to the ground, who let out a startled cry.  The immediate escape attempt that followed was thwarted by a pair of large hands latching onto shoulder wheels, whirling the little bot around, and forcing him to meet Onslaught's calculating form.

"Onslaught," he said at last, with false friendliness.  "Long time no see."

"Indeed, Swindle," was Onslaught's reply, his tone cheerful.  "It's been, what?  A hundred years?"

"Almost exactly," Swindle laughed.  "Which I assume is why you had your mooks invade my shop, destroy my shop, chase me through downtown Praxus, _blow up_ downtown Praxus, blow up one of my warehouses, and ultimately blow up _me_.  You _owe_ me, Onslaught.  Do you wanna take a guess at how much capital I lost today because you can't get your head out of the past?!"

Instead of answering, Onslaught tossed the threatening note to Swindle, who caught it with ease.  As he read it over, his anger turned to confusion, and then concern, as he reread its contents.  "Seven days?  Seven days 'til what?"

"Probably nothing," Onslaught admitted.  "But I didn't make it this far by taking unnecessary risks."

"Oh, of course.  Ignoring an ominous letter is an 'unnecessary risk,' but blowing up the Enforcer capital of the world in an incredibly high-profile stunt was _very_ necessary.  This is why I stopped working with you, Ons."

"I did not order Vortex to do such a thing."

"It's the company you keep.  I already think you're kind of a creep, but your men?  So much worse.  They're legit insane, Onslaught.  I don't know why you bother keeping such walking liabilities as Brawl and Vortex around."  He dropped his gaze and began fidgeting, thoughts turning inward.  "Man, I never shoulda accepted that job offer from you.  I _knew_ it would come back to bite me in the aft eventually." 

"Perhaps," Onslaught agreed, reaching into his desk, finding his next weapon with ease.  "But you never _could_ resist the temptation of cold, hard shanix."  This time, it was a credit transfer receipt that he tossed Swindle's way.  Again, Swindle had no difficulty in catching the tiny thing, though his eyes widened as he read its contents.

"S-six billion –"

"That should be more than enough to replace what you've lost today.  Consider the rest an advance on your first commission."

Those big purple optics shuttered, before shifting upwards, meeting Onslaught's own.  "I hate you.  So much." 

"Will you accept my offer?"

With trembling hands, Swindle lowered the receipt to his side, removing it from his line of sight, while still keeping the thing close.  "What do you want from me?"

"Just to keep you near.  You may operate from within Kaon as before, though you will be guarded at all times, for your own safety, of course.  Though it is unlikely our mysterious enemy will be able to truly harm us, I do believe that we would be foolish to make ourselves into easy targets.  And of course, you will be staying at Onslaught HQ, in one of our luxury suites, where you and your goods will be protected by our state-of-the-art security systems.  And as an official employee of 'Onslaught Industries', you will be granted a monthly salary.  Perhaps six hundred thousand will suffice? "  Primus, this was an easy sell.  Swindle was practically drooling.  Admittedly, the price was a bit steep – high enough to make Onslaught wince, but the hit to his personal savings (and Vortex and Brawl's salaries) would be worth it to keep Swindle from sabotaging them.  "What do you say, Swindle?"

Truly, there was only one thing Swindle _could_ say.  He stepped forward, holding out a hand.  "Onslaught," he said, his voice strained with the knowledge that he was about to do something he would very much regret.  "I accept your offer." 

Onslaught took the offered hand, grasped it tight, and allowed a quick wire to extend from his fingertip into a slot in Swindle's wrist, transferring over the advance.  "I'm glad you see it my way."

The deal was sealed.  Swindle was bought.  The first issues on the agenda was resolved. 

But Swindle was the easy part.  Now it was Vortex and Brawl, trapped in the most well-guarded prison on Cybertron, and damned by the highly-visible nature of their misdeeds.  Primus, how was he going to get them out?  At the rate he was going, the bribes alone would drive his business into the ground within the week. 

Deep inside, he gave a miserable laugh.  Maybe _that_ was how this criminal intended to ruin him.  Only time would tell.  For now, however, it was time to call in a favor to a certain Senator Flatfoot and hope that there was _something_ to be done for it.

 


	3. Day 1: Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vortex comes to in a Praxian prison.

"Vortex.  _Vortex_!"

Vortex wasn't a picky mech.  He'd been homeless and destitute, he'd lived in the lap of luxury, and had dragged himself across every single step of the long and winding staircase between the former and the latter.  Likewise, he'd had the pleasure of waking up in a thousand different places with a million different bots, each offering their own brand of happiness or excitement or even adventure.  Waking up on a cold prison floor with Brawl jostling his aching shoulder and grunting in his audial, however, mostly just felt unpleasant.

He groaned and allowed his optics to flicker on.  " _What_?"

"Finally!" Brawl grumbled, but he didn't release his grip.  That probably wasn't a good sign.  "You wanna tell me what the frag you did to get us locked up in here?!  The last thing I remember, Swindle's throwin' explosives at me (thanks for giving those to him, by the way), and then the next thing I know, I'm waking up on a prison floor.  Couldn't a' been anything _I_ did, so I'm figurin' you fucked up big time. 

"What you say next decides how badly I fuck _you_ up."  He gave Vortex's shoulder a sharp warning squeeze.

Vortex, however, wasn't paying much attention to Brawl.  He was in a new and dangerous situation.  His entire frame felt like it had shattered to pieces, only to be glued back together by an underpaid amateur craftsman.  His only consolation was that the Enforcers had bothered to put him back together at all.  How nice of Praxus to pay for the medical treatment of a criminal! 

Beyond the pain, a quick systems scan told him that his t-cog and weapons systems had been disabled.  Predictable, but annoying nonetheless.

The cell he shared with Brawl was small.  He could barely stretch out his rotors without Brawl's massive bulk getting in the way.  However, the tight confines had their uses.  A single camera kept watch over their cell, and it was easy enough to use Brawl's heavy frame to hide from it.  It didn't seem to be fixed with audio recording capabilities either, which was great, because Brawl was certain to give away more than he should without realizing.  It was better to be cautious regardless.

Brawl's grip on Vortex's shoulder tightened, enough so to make the make the metal shriek in protest.  The sudden burst of added pain pulled his attention back to the present, and his rather imposing teammate.  "Are you even listening to me?!"

"What do you want me to say, Brawl?  Looks to me like you're dead set on pummeling me, no matter how I respond, so why bother?"

Brawl's fingers fell slack, allowing Vortex to slip to the ground.  He twisted his arm around in its socket in a vain effort at working out the kinks.  But what was the point when his whole body was aching?

"Ah, don't be like that, Tex.  You can't just not tell me!  I'm in here 'cause of you!  I got a right to know!"

So easily manipulated, this one.  It seemed curiosity trumped his insatiable need for violence, in this case, luckily for Vortex.  "Look, things got a bit messy when I was chasing down Swindle, okay?  Honestly don't know how they managed to track _you_ down – guess they recognized that it was Swindle I was chasing and decided to investigate his hidey hole."  Brawl's fists clenched at his side, and he feinted forward, as though preparing to attack.  Vortex wasn't particularly nervous.

"So yeah, I may have used a bit too much force, but what's it matter?  Onslaught will get us outta here.  He always does."

"Yeah.  Right."  Why, it sounded like Brawl didn't believe him!  It was downright rude, is what it was. 

"Hey, we got this.  Come on, we've been in far worse situations than this, Brawl!  Remember Protihex?"

_That_ got him smiling again.  How could Brawl forget Protihex?  Those were some good times.

"Hey," Vortex said, making sure to slip out of the surveillance camera's field of vision.  He'd buttered up Brawl just enough to be reasonably sure that he wouldn't find a giant fist flying at his face unprovoked.  It hadn't taken very long, but that was his favorite thing about Brawl.  It was so much easier to discuss business, when he didn't have to perform an unending series of mental backflips to protect his personal safety.  Speaking of business . . .

"No one's come to interrogate you yet, have they?"

"No.  Why?"  Vortex didn't even have a chance to answer.  "Wait, you think they're gonna?"  Already, Brawl was psyching himself out.  It was always good for a laugh.  There was a heavy clang as two heavy hands slammed into that thick head, fretting and freaking.  "Of _course_ they're gonna!  What am I gonna say, Tex?  I'm not good at that shit!  They'll get me to crack, and I'll spill _everything_ – about Ons, and –"

"Hey, hey!  None of that now," laughed Vortex.  He didn't think there was any audio surveillance, but it was better safe than sorry.  A thought struck him.  "Come to think of it, you got knocked out back at Swindle's place.  You didn't do a thing wrong.  They can't hold you here if you've broken no laws."

"It's Praxus!  They think I'm – I don't know, probably some kind of _terrorist_!  I'm a tank; of course they think I'm a terrorist!  It's always like that with us tanks; you wouldn't understand."

Vortex shot him a sharp glare.  "I don't care _what_ they _think_.  They have no proof that you've done anything wrong, 'cause you haven't.  Just stick with that.  'I haven't done anything wrong.  You can't keep me here.'"

"I don't . . ." he trailed off, sounding so very pathetic and adorable.  Brawl really was a big _sparklet_ , wasn't he.

"Here," he said, pushing Brawl backwards, until he was seated on the cell's single bunk.  It sunk beneath his heavy weight; Vortex wasn't entirely convinced that it would hold up, but it didn't break at least.  "Pretend I'm a big bad interrogator, yeah?  That should be easy."

"Okay."

"Now," he said, allowing his stance to melt into full-on work mode.  He stood taller, let his rotors flare as much as he could in the tight space, turned his body at just the right angle to appear aloof yet threatening.  Brawl straightened up, despite himself.  "What were you doing in the burnt-out remains of Swindle's Goods 'n Things on the afternoon of the second Dixosol of the eighth lunar cycle, approximately twelve past the sixth cycle?"

"I was . . . err, being knocked out?"

"You think you're bein' funny?" Vortex snapped, leaning up close into Brawl's face.  He leapt away again before Brawl had a chance to react.  "You were there with that rotary, weren't you?  How do you know him?"

"Err, we – uh, we work together?"

"What do you do?"

Brawl's optics grew wider, his face flushed with red heat.  Five questions, and he was already cracking.  "We're um – we're deliverers."

"And what is it you deliver?"

"I – We –"

"Something wrong, Brawl?"

"Argh!" he gave a woeful roar, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  "I can't do this Tex.  It's too hard to think when they're all starin' at you, lookin' for you to slip up."

Brawl really was hopeless.  This was a disaster waiting to happen, waiting to implicate Onslaught, and destroy any slim chance he and Brawl had of escape.  it was too much to hope that the Enforcers decided that only Vortex was worth interrogating.  He needed a fix to this mess.

"Give me your visor."

"What?!" Brawl shot up at that, a look of horror on his obscured face.  "I'm not giving you that!  It's attached."

"I'll give it back," Vortex promised.  "I just need to write down some notes."

"Notes?  What notes are you gonna write on _this_ tiny thing?" Brawl tapped the glass to illustrate.  "It's not a lot of room."

"Trust me."  Making sure to keep out of sight of the camera, Vortex moved in close.  Seated, Brawl was still _just_ taller than him – perfectly in reach, and yet still big enough to hide behind.  He reached out, and tugged at Brawl's visor, and Brawl, uncooperative aft that he was, jerked backwards.

"Hey!"

"You wanna go home today?  Or you wanna crack under the pressure of the interrogation room?  Come on Brawlie, your choice."

When put like that, Brawl didn't have much of a choice at all, did he?.  He slumped forward, defeated.  "Fine, fine.  Just – just don't break it.  My vision's slag without it."

"Do you doubt my skill Brawl?  I'm an interrogator!  I'm _excellent_ with my hands!"  He reached in again, sharp clawtips digging into the seams on either side of Brawl's helm.  He winced, but ultimately stayed in place, gritting his teeth as Vortex jiggled and jostled the visor until it, at long last, popped right out and into his hands.  From there, it was just a few quick notes carved in with a claw, and then back on Brawl's face, good as new.  Thankfully.  Seeing Brawl without a visor made him a little uncomfortable.

"W-what the slag is this?  'Why did you bring me here?  I didn’t do anything wrong.  Can I leave yet?  Refer to P.C.E.  243.1?'  How's _this_ supposed to help me?!" he snapped, lunging closer to Vortex, promising violent retribution.  Vortex didn't bother leaping out of range; Brawl stopped just shy of punching Vortex's face in.

" What were you doing in the burnt-out remains of Swindle's Goods 'n Things on the afternoon of the second Dixosol of the eighth lunar cycle, approximately twelve past the sixth cycle?" he said, throwing on the cold demeanor he'd worn before.

Brawl paused, trying to figure out the trick.  But eventually, that pea-sized brain module finally put two and two together.  His optics lit up, he was so proud of himself! "I didn't do anything wrong."

"That's not what I asked!" Vortex snapped.  For a moment, Brawl was taken aback, but he kept on anyway.

"Why did you bring me here?  I didn't do anything wrong."

"You were –" Vortex cut himself off.  Very nice, Brawl.  Very nice.  Not perfect, but probably as good as it was going to get.

"Can I leave yet?"

"You get the idea?" Vortex said, breaking character.

"I think so."

"Good.  They might try to mix you up a bit – just repeat the party line."

"But what's with this last part?  The P.C.E. bit?"

Vortex shrugged.  "This is Praxus.  They _love_ their little laws.  Section 243 line one of the Praxian Code of Ethics – 'No civilian may be arrested without due cause' or whatever.  Oh, and if they bring up terrorism, just keep sayin' that you did nothing wrong."

"Terrorism?  What?"

"Nothing, nothing!  You got this Brawl!"  Vortex patted a wrist the size of his own head affectionately.  Nothing left to do now but wait.  Or, y'know, if there's anything you wanna do in the meantime . . ." his optics twinkled mischievously.

"Like I'd ever touch _you_ again," Brawl grumbled, back-stepping back to the bunk and flopping down.  It creaked ominously beneath him once more.  Vortex thought to make a comment, but he stopped himself.  The big oaf was muttering a series of words under his breath – at first Vortex had thought it was griping, but a second listen revealed that he was repeating his notes to himself.  Idiot.  They were right there in front of his face!

Oh well.

With Brawl hogging the bunk, and in no mood for games, Vortex did the only thing he could think to, and flopped to the ground, letting his legs stretch out before him.  Primus, those interrogators couldn't get here fast enough.

~~~

Eventually they did come, ushering both Brawl and Vortex from the cell, splitting them into two separate rooms.  There was nothing special about the room Vortex found himself in.  It had a table, which Vortex was quickly cuffed to, three uncomfortable, unadjustable stools to sit on, a dim overhead lamp that kept flickering on and off, and of course, the one-way window.  Classic.

His interrogators on the other hand, clearly didn't have much experience.  The first was a typical Enforcer – a speedster decked out all in shades of black and white and red, though this one appeared to be an immigrant from one of the neighboring states – Protihex, perhaps?  His luscious, kissable lips were pulled tightly in a stoic frown.  It was all that was visible of his expression; the mech's eyes were hidden behind a visor.  The lack of emotion was a plus, but he struck Vortex more as disinterested than particularly cold or ruthless.

The second mech was little better.  Sure, he had a deranged look in his eye that his partner really could have done with, but he was perhaps a bit _too_ expressive.  Even with his teeth bared in an enthusiastic grin, Vortex felt comfortable with the mech – perhaps because he was another rotary?  Two blades framed his back, that Vortex could easily imagine running his hands along, squeezing, reducing his opponent to a quivering heap of mush beneath his touch.  Yummy!

The copter had the red-and-white paint job of a rescue worker, which seemed a little out of place.  A: what was a rescue worker doing in an interrogation room?  And B: what had possessed a rotary mech to seek a job as a rescue worker?  They weren't exactly known for their kind hearts and determination. 

Vortex wondered how difficult it would be to get himself sandwiched between the two.  Ooh, or skewered.  Skewered was good.

"Do you know why you're here?" Pouty Lips said, his voice deep and tone unfluctuating.  Mmm, _that_ was a voice he could overload to. 

Vortex leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands.  He looked rather comfortable, a fact which made his interrogators _uncomfortable_.  "I'm assuming it was firing missiles into populated areas while pursuing a little jeep.  I don't suppose you'll buy that that was a _different_ helicopter?"

"Not on your life, Pal," Sexy Blades snapped, folding his arms over his chest.  "We have a couple hundred witnesses, not to mention that we found evidence on your frame that several missiles had been fired by you personally in the past six hours, during our medical scans."

"Oooh, I feel so violated!"

Pouty Lips coughed, trying to hide his discomfort.  "First things first: what is your name?"

"Vortex, of Valvolux."  The other copter sat up a little straighter at that, though Vortex didn't understand why for the life of him.  It wasn't like copters from Valvolux were exactly rare.  That was why he'd chosen it for his cover, after all.

"And what do you do?"

"Make a mess of things, mostly."

Sexy Blades leapt to his feet at that, slamming a hand down on the table in front of Vortex.  "Don't fuck around with us!" he snapped.  "You were chasing down Swindle through downtown Praxus.  Why?"

Vortex would have loved for his stool to have a back to lean on.  Instead, he sat up a little straighter, arching his spinal struts and fanning his blades.  The other copter withdrew at this, at least a little flustered by the display.  Naturally, it went right over Pouty Lips's thick head.  "Why do you think?  He's _Swindle_.  Little bugger swindled me.  Thought I'd do 'im some payback."

"And the tank?" Pouty Lips pressed. 

Vortex shrugged, collapsing his blades into their resting position, enjoying the way that copter's eyes remained locked on them, transfixed.  "I mean, I've seen him around once or twice, but we're not exactly friends or anything.  I don't know _why_ he was there.  Maybe the same reason as me?"

"You expect me to believe that?"  Pouty Lips said in his most intimidating voice.  "You two were awfully buddy-buddy in your cell."

Another nonchalant shrug from Vortex.  "You can disbelieve it all you want.  It's not gonna change my answer.  I've met Brawl, sure.  I'm an active, handsome helicopter," he winked at Sexy Blades behind his visor, "I go out to clubs from time to time.  He goes out to clubs from time to time.  Maybe we've had a fling at some point; wouldn't surprise me," this time he kept his gaze fixed on Pouty Lips.  "Point is – I'm not bonded to the guy or anything.  I don't know why he was at Swindle's.  Next question."

"You don't get to decide that!" Blades snapped, fists clenching around the hilt of an invisible sword.  Hmm, near his breaking point then.   Praxus was getting sloppy.

"Let it go, Blades."  Oh?  His name was _actually_ 'Blades?'  Hah!  Bless rotaries and their penchant for predictable naming schemes!  Vortex snickered.

"You think this is funny?!"

"No no . . . well, yes, actually."  He waved a lazy hand in the air.  "Your name is Blades."

"How's that funny?!"

"Oh," Vortex grinned, coyly.  "No reason, really.  A bit on the nose, that's all.  Here I was, calling you 'Sexy Blades' in my head, completely ignorant of the fact that it was your actual name!"  He barked a short laugh.  It was enough to take the words right out of Blades's mouth.  Heh.  Amateurs.  Was this really the best Praxus had to offer someone like him?

"Who do you work for?" Pouty Lips pressed, trying his best to stay focused despite the mockery.

"I'm sorry, who do I . . . work for?"  He slumped over on the table, letting his arms stretch as far forward as they would go in these chains.  The lazy, rebellious posture clearly irritated his captors, which was another win.  "I'm self-employed, my mech."

"Doing what?"

"Oh I don't know.  What do you think a pretty little rotary like myself would be getting up to out on my own in the big, bad world?"

"Crime.  Murder.  Assault.  Pillaging.  Acts of Terror."

"Internalized caste-ism.  What a sorry sight."  Vortex pretended to wipe away a tear.  "Also, there's gotta be a targeted group for it to be an act of terror.  But yeah.  You got me.  I live in the underground, I'll admit it.  Folks buy my services; I give them what they want."

"Wow, vague.  How unexpected," Blades snorted.

Vortex shrugged.  "I'll do pretty much anything for some cash."

"So," said Pouty Lips, still so admirably trying to stay on topic.  "You're some kind of mercenary or a buymech, or whatever vague profession of dubious legality that you refuse to fully admit to.  You bought something from Swindle that you felt cheated for, came back for revenge, and blew up a transit tunnel and a major street in the process.  Is that what you're telling me?"

"That's correct."

"And tell me, assuming I believe this story for a second, what is your plan from here?"

Vortex sat back up.  "Get outta this pit, go home, get laid.  Not necessarily in that order."  He winked at Blades again, but it seemed that this time, he'd had enough. 

Blades threw himself half over the table, grabbed onto the back of Vortex's helm, and slammed it down with all his might, hard enough to crack his visor.  Frag it all.

"Do you think you're funny?!" he roared, even as his companion pulled him back.

"Hilarious," Vortex chuckled, unfolding himself one strut at a time, motions jerky and unnatural, until he was sitting tall again.  He hoped that the crack in his visor made him at least a little unnerving.  Judging by the look on Blades's face, it did.

"Blades, take a walk," his partner growled, ushering him to the door.  Throwing one final glare over his shoulder, Blades stepped out, slamming the door behind him.

"Aww, you scared away the view."

It was Pouty Lips's turn to get angry, though unlike Blades, his rage was more quiet burn than violent firestorm.  "I think you fail to understand the severity of your situation.  You are facing execution for your crimes; your cooperation is the only thing that can save you from a slow and brutal spark death.  Maybe you'd like to try it."

Vortex faltered, if only for a second.  Was that really true?  No way!  "Execution?  Has to be a trial for there to be an execution," he scoffed, folding his arms.

"No," the mech said.  "Not for you.  Not for your crime, not for how many witnesses there were, not for the death toll, and _not_ in Praxus.  You don't get a trial.  You don't get rights.  You get jack shit unless you cooperate and tell us what's really going on here."

Okay, this wasn't fun anymore.  Vortex locked his rotors in resting position, hoping for the life of him that this mech hadn't noticed their sudden, slight tremor.  He wasn't nervous.  Vortex didn't _get_ nervous!  So what if they executed him?  He was a war frame!  He wasn't _programmed_ to fear death!

And besides, they'd never get that far anyway.  Onslaught was one of the most powerful mechs in the world.  If anyone could get Vortex out of the slammer, it would be Onslaught! 

Onslaught would save him . . .

"Nothing to say to that?"

For once, Vortex was speechless.

The mech's shoulders at last slumped in a sigh.  "It's your funeral then, buddy."  He rose from the table and left the room himself.  Moments later, two burly guards came in, unhitched Vortex from the table, and none-too-gently escorted him back to his cell.

~~~

Two hours later, Brawl still hadn't returned.  That could have meant any number of things.  Maybe his interrogation was running long (probably a bad thing)?  Maybe he was being transported somewhere else (definitely a bad thing!)?  Maybe they'd let him go?  There was no use dwelling on it.  Vortex would find out sooner or later, he was sure.  But Primus, it was boring in here without him, not to mention much harder to hide from the camera.

It took another three hours for the heavy door at the end of the hall to slide open, for footsteps to make their way over the cold, steel floors.  They were alone, he noted, and too light to be Brawl's.

In fact, it was Blades, who had come to feed him breakfast.  Had it been so long already?  Vortex no longer had access to his chronometer; it was difficult to track the passage of time.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite handsome helicopter?  What brings you all the way down here?"

"Primus knows I don't want to be," Blades bit out.  "But we're civil folks here, so you get fed.  Now back!"  He waited for Vortex to back himself against the wall, before slipping the cube of low grade through the bars and setting it on the floor.

Vortex, however, wasn't feeling all that hungry.  Not for food anyway.  "So, what happened to my roommate?"

"You mean that stupid tank you definitely don't know?" Blades sneered, clearly not believing a word of Vortex's testimony.  "They couldn't pin anything on him.  Councilor Flatfoot pardoned him this morning, and he was sent back to Kaon for some _mysterious_ reason that I bet you'd know nothing about."  His eyes flashed with a knowing light, and he folded his arms over his chest, backing away.  But his stance was anything but submissive.  "I'm sure you're glad to see the last of him.  Now you got the whole cell to yourself."

"Yes.  I can stretch my rotors in here.  It's rather nice."  The words came out more stilted than he'd intended.  If Brawl had been pardoned and returned to Kaon, it was because Onslaught had requested it.  But what of Vortex?  Had Onslaught left him here to stew on purpose?  Or had he stepped in it too deeply – to the point where even Onslaught couldn't save him?

_Fuck_.

"I'm glad you like it.  I'm sure you weren't counting on some shady character in Kaon stepping in on your behalf or anything.  We both know that no one's coming to help you – that nobody _can_.  Not after what you did.  So enjoy the spacious room.  It's the last one you'll ever see.  Execution's set in six days.  Have fun, Vortex of _Valvolux."_   He snickered and waved, before returning back the way he came, disabling the lights this time on his way out, and leaving Vortex alone in the dark, with only his frantic thoughts and a feeling of impending doom to keep him company.

And also the darkness.

Vortex hated the dark.


	4. Day 1: Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blast Off is struggling to trust Onslaught as the situation unravels around him.

"You don't have to keep watching me, you know.  I'm not gonna split _now_.  I do have _some_ self-preservation, y'know."

Blast Off responded with a non-committal grunt, as he watched Swindle fill up his new room with a few odds and ends.  A fully-stocked case of high grade, a priceless crystal statuette of Nova Prime, off-world draperies that shimmered in a distinctly organic way – it was looking more like a home already.  Primus only knew where he'd been keeping this stuff.  Did he always travel with an elegant room tucked away in his subspace?

"Right, I forgot.  You're the tall, dark, and brooding type.  My bad."  He conjured up one more box (No, seriously.  How had he crammed so much in there?  And knowing Swindle, this probably wasn't even the half of it), kicked it into a corner, then plopped himself down with a sigh.  "There!  All done.  You can stop babysitting me now."

"Onslaught told me to keep an eye on you."

"And do you always do what Onslaught says?"

Blast Off had to think about that for a moment.  He wanted to protest the snide implication, but truth be told, he couldn't dispute it.  "He hasn't led us wrong yet."

"Are you sure?  'Cause I thought we had some psycho trying to make us suffer as a direct result of Onslaught's leadership."  He flopped over on the crate with a groan.

When Blast Off again had no reply, Swindle's optics alit with mischief.  He was always at his most dangerous when bored.  It was something he and Vortex had in common.  "So, Onslaught tells you pretty much everything, right?  What all do you know about all _this_?"  He gestured vaguely in the air.

"No more than you, I’m afraid."

Swindle shot up at that.  "No way!  You can't possibly expect me to believe that –"

"I've read the letter, and that's it.  We're assuming  it's related to – er, the Incident," Blast Off shuddered at the mention.  It was all a rather grisly affair that he preferred to forget about.  But he didn't regret it.  There was a price to be paid for crossing Onslaught.  It had to be done, or their wise leader would be spending all his time watching his back, and none getting work done.  Case in point, no one had bothered their family ever since – until now, at least.  "Even _that's_ just conjecture, however."

"What, so our fearless leader got a mysterious and threatening letter, and he decides this is reason enough to drag me away from my perfectly nice life?  While allowing you guys to blow up Praxus in the process?  Like, do you seriously believe that's it?  He's _Onslaught_.  He's probably got an entire file cabinet dedicated to hate mail."

"If Onslaught thinks it's serious, then I believe him."

"Of course you do," Swindle laughed.

Blast Off had no response to that.  It was clear that Swindle thought he was some slavering henchman, and though his assumption was unfounded, Blast Off didn't care enough to correct him.  Though he did have a point.  Onslaught wasn't normally one to get up in arms over this kind of thing.  In sending Vortex and Brawl to Praxus to collect Swindle, he had made the situation all the worse.  The smart thing would have been to let it all blow over.  So why then, the over-the-top extraction? 

Something had Onslaught spooked; that much was clear. 

But who cared?  Blast Off had his own issues to worry about, and Onslaught's questionable decisions weren't at the top of the list.  He was the leader, it wasn't Blast Off's job to question him.  It _was_ , however, his job to keep track of personnel, and _that_ was a current catastrophe.  "I hope they're all right," he muttered, more to himself than to Swindle.  He may have preferred to present himself as aloof and uncaring, but truth be told, he'd grown quite fond of his little family over his centuries of employment under Onslaught.  It was difficult for a mech like him to make friends; damned if he wasn't going to protect the ones he had.

"Who?  Vortex and Brawl?" Swindle asked, perking up.  "Oh, I'm sure they're _fine_.  Praxus is _known_ for treating their prisoners with the utmost courtesy!"

The glare Blast Off shot Swindle could have killed a lesser bot.  Swindle inched back on his crate.  "Well, I mean, they're really into their laws over there.  Tex and Brawlie have a few days at least before they're in any real danger.  And besides, Vortex is smart and Onslaught is rich.  Somewhere between those two, I'm sure we'll all find a way to make sure our wayward companions make it back home safe and sound.  So there's no sense in worrying your pretty little head about it."

Sense or no, Blast Off wasn't going to stop worrying his pretty little head over it.  Not that he'd let Swindle know about that.

"Aww, don't be like that now.  You can't hide that long face from me, even if you _are_ wearing a face plate."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Blast Off," Swindle snorted.  "I'm a con artist.  I read people for a living.  And I can tell you're really upset about all this.  I mean, I would be too if I was you and actually gave a flying frag about anybody else.  See me?  I'm just in this for the money.  But _you've_ always struck me as a decent sort.  That's why I'll throw you a bone."

"What could you possibly do for me?"  His tone was gruff, but Blast Off found himself intrigued nonetheless. 

"I was in Praxus for a long time, y'know?  Picked up a thing or two over the years, 'bout how they live and all that – customs, atmosphere, et cetera.  The boring stuff that a guy like Onslaught might overlook."  What was he on about?  Blast Off shot him a sharp glare, for all the good it did him.  Swindle was going to talk, whether Blast Off wanted to hear it or not.  "For instance," he continued, "did you know that killing detractors does not actually keep people from hating you?  Or talking about how they hate  you?  They just learn to do it quietly, so you don't hear."

Blast Off raised an optic ridge.  "You call that a bone?"

"No, but after what we did?  Doesn't matter _how_ many folks Vortex offed or Onslaught threatened – Praxus remembers."

"You're saying someone in _Praxus_ is threatening us?  Why would Onslaught care so much about that?  There's no one in Praxus that's a threat to him; we saw to that already.  And besides, they have no way of knowing Onslaught was involved in that at all.  We covered our tracks!"

"Whoa, whoa!" Swindle laughed, holding up his hands.  "I said no such thing.  What I _am_ saying is that Praxus holds a grudge.  Not saying I know any more than that.  Just – if _I_ was a Praxian, I'd want Onslaught destroyed too, and anyone who helped him."

Blast Off considered that for a moment.  Admittedly, he hadn't given much thought to Onslaught's request to gather Swindle, or his fear over a random threat that had come from nowhere.  Did he know who was threatening him?  Surely he must have an idea.  But then, why hadn't he said anything?  Why would he hide such information from his own followers? 

None of it made sense.

"You feelin' all right there, buddy?"

"I'm fine!" Blast Off snapped.  Swindle's perfectly-manufacture smile was the last thing he needed to see right now-abouts.  Much like Onslaught, Swindle was always playing his own game; he couldn't be trusted.  Why had Onslaught thought this was a good idea?

. . . Why was he doubting Onslaught?

"Hey, hey, it's okay," said Swindle, waving his hands.  "I get it.  You trust Onslaught implicitly.  You can't stand the thought that he wouldn't tell you something this important.  It's a tough position to be in, but I'm sure he's got his reasons, right?"  His smile grew wider, friendlier, harder to believe.  He was trying to play Blast Off!  Unfortunately for him, Blast Off was no slouch.

"I trust Onslaught," he said, his narrowed eyes boring a hole right through Swindle.  "And nothing you say can change that."

"Sure thing, buddy.  Glad to hear it."

Swindle was doing this on purpose.  Onslaught had granted him untold riches that frankly, he didn't deserve, and in return, Swindle belittled him, mocked him, tried to turn Blast Off against him.  The ungrateful fragger needed to learn to be more careful, or next time, _he'd_ be the one tossed in the scraplet pit.  But Blast Off wasn't about to tell him that.  Intolerable as he was, Onslaught wanted Swindle around for a reason.  And though Blast Off couldn't understand quite what that reason was, far be it from him to ruin everything due to a petty grudge.

Instead of engaging, he found a nearby shelf to lean against, pulled out a data tablet, and began reading. 

"Suit yourself," Swindle shrugged, and turned his back on Blast Off to instead focus on rearranging his new room to his liking.

Swindle was supposed to have a guard on him at all times.  In a few hours, someone would come and relieve Blast Off.  In a few hours, he'd be out of this oversized room with its undersized atmosphere and its intolerable little occupant, and off into the open air.  Not quite as good as space, but the next best thing.  In the meantime, he just had to persevere – he just had to ignore this obnoxious louse and focus on other things.

He trusted Onslaught.  Onslaught would protect them, he'd save Vortex and Blast Off, he'd find this stupid blackmailer, and he'd make everything right again.  Blast Off had known the mech long enough to know that much was true.  And nothing Swindle said could change that.

~~~

Blast Off felt much better after his afternoon flyover of the city, which was good.  He was going to need all the positivity he could muster now that he was back at headquarters.  Onslaught had summoned him, and Onslaught only ever summoned him when something big was going down.

He stepped into the elegant office for the second time that day, though this time, Onslaught wasn't at his desk.  The behavior was unusual for a mech as careful as he was, but when Blast Off entered the room, his wise leader's back was to the door; he was staring out from the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city.  Onslaught didn't so much as flinch when Blast Off entered.  After all this time, he knew Blast Off by sound, by smell, by feeling.  Few friends were closer, Blast Off would venture.

"You came."

"I did."  Despite the confident statement, Blast Off couldn't quite hide his confusion as he approached.  Something seemed wrong with the whole setup.  But before he could dwell on it for too long, Onslaught turned to face him, his frame dark with the light of the setting sun at his back.  He seemed somehow dazed, which was ridiculous on its own.  Onslaught was always alert; he didn't _do_ dazed.

"There is . . . something I need to talk with you about."

Blast Off didn't like _that_ tone of voice.  Onslaught only spoke like that when he'd failed, and he hadn't failed in centuries.  "What happened, Sir?"

"I just spoke to Councilor Flatfoot."

"From Praxus?"

Onslaught nodded, moving back to his desk and flopping into his seat, strutless.  Moments later, he swiveled around to pull a quarter-cube of high grade from a drawer, and took a long swig, before he found the courage to talk.  "Brawl I got off just fine, but a couple hundred witnesses saw Vortex blow up that tunnel.  They can't release him to me, and nothing I do will change that – at least nothing that will avoid implicating me, or making the mess worse.  Oh, and speaking of worse, he's on trial in six days.  Execution is on the table.  And I can't do a damned thing."

"I . . . You what?"  His hands were shaking, his spark racing.  Vortex was . . . trapped in a Praxian prison, awaiting his death, and Onslaught couldn’t _do_ anything about it?!  That couldn't be right!  Onslaught was the mech who could do _anything_!  He'd taken their lot of washed-up war-builds trapped with no assets on a peacetime planet that despised their existence, and he'd transformed them into the most powerful force on the planet.  He was unstoppable!  _How_ then, could he not save Vortex!?  It didn't make _sense_!  "No.  No, that can't be right.  You have to get Vortex out of there."

Onslaught's optic band narrowed.  "I _told_ you, Blast Off.  There's nothing I can do for him."

"But he's one of us," Blast Off protested.  One of Onslaught's best – his closest confidants, bravest warriors, family.  Vortex wasn't some faceless mook, errand boy, or lackey.  He was a part of the team; he deserved better.

" _Vortex_ , is an idiot who made such a mess of your last mission that even _my_ hands are tied.  Do you realize what a feat that is?  I'd be impressed if I wasn't so pissed off."

True, yes.  But Blast Off was not about to back down so easily.  Nothing was impossible for Onslaught!  So what if he couldn't do things the diplomatic way?  He could send grunts to break into the prison and steal him, he could stage a body swap, he could aim lower, bribe the guards themselves.  Instead, he'd given up without a fight!  It wasn't right!  Blast Off was prepared to tell Onslaught off once more, but Onslaught, his already-silver face plate blanched two shades paler, beat him to it.

"Look, Vortex will be fine where he is for now.  They can't kill him until he's stood trial, and it will take Praxus a few days to process the case.  We have time to sort this out.  I just – I'm under a lot of pressure right now."

"He's one of us," Blast Off repeated, though his earlier conviction had waned, if only a little.  It was difficult to stay mad at Onslaught, particularly when he played the sympathy card.  "What if we don't figure something out in time?"

Onslaught approached, reached out, clapped a comforting hand on his shoulder.  Blast Off always felt weird when he did that.  The mech wasn't known for being touchy-feely, and yet he'd cast off that reputation for Blast Off's sake.  Wasn't it strange?

"Six days," he said.  Until Vortex's likely execution, yes.    "We have six days to figure out this blackmail mess."  Oh, and that too.  What a horrible coincidence.  " _Then_ we can worry about Vortex."

Blast Off threw off the touch with an annoyed sigh.  "I don't see why we have to worry about the blackmail at all.  Who in the world could possibly be a threat to _you_?"  The words were accusative, but his tone remained calm, conversational.  He didn't want Onslaught mad at him.  He'd seen the mech's temper before, usually directed at some other minion, or Brawl or Vortex.  He didn't want to find himself on the wrong side of it.  "Why are you so spooked?"

Left with an awkward floating hand, Onslaught quickly brought his arms in to fold them over his chest.  "That is none of your concern."

"But –"

"Drop it!" Onslaught snapped, lunging forward half a step before catching himself.  A moment of tense silence passed between them – Blast Off wary, and Onslaught fighting for calm. 

"Look," he said.  "I'll figure out this thing with Vortex.  I won't let him die in there; I promise."  For once, Blast Off wasn't sure if he believed his leader's words, but he did not bring it up.  "But I need your cooperation, Blast Off.  You're my most trusted, most loyal subject."  He moved closer again, this time allowing _both_ hands to rest on Blast Off's shoulders.  "I'm counting on you to get us through these trying times."

"Me?"  Blast Off cocked his head, looking up into his leader's expressionless visor with curiosity.  "What am _I_ supposed to do?"

"I want you to fly back to Praxus and collect Brawl."

"What?"

"Vortex isn't free to go, but Brawl is.  I need you to collect him and bring him back here."

"He's not going to be happy about that," Blast Off tried to protest.  "There's no way Brawl's going to leave Vortex behind!"

"Brawl and Vortex are always competing with one another.  Play on that and it should be easy enough to win him over."

Blast Off wanted to protest, wanted to call out Onslaught for how terrible this plan was, for how shady he was being, but he didn't.  He'd spent half his life following Onslaught, trusting him, and he hadn't been steered wrong yet. Onslaught was the guy with the plans.  Onslaught knew what he was doing! 

Swindle had been trying to goad him earlier, trying to make him doubt.  Blast Off couldn't doubt.  Onslaught surely had a plan to save Vortex.  And that plan, for whatever reason, must have relied on retrieving Brawl.  Arguing wasn't going to help anyone.  Blast Off would just have to do what he did best and accept that things were out of his hands.  "Very well.  I'll do it.  First thing in the morning, I'll fly up to Praxus, grab Brawl, and bring him back here."

But that wasn't enough for Onslaught.  He was stepping in now, slipping behind him, leaning in close to whisper in his audial receptor.  Blast Off couldn't stave off the shudder.  What _was_ this?

"You'll go now."

"Now?  It's the middle of the night.  Won't that be suspicious?"

A pair of hands came to rest on either side of his neck and gave a firm squeeze.  It could have been a show of solidarity, but somehow, it seemed threatening.  What the Pit had come over Onslaught?  This wasn't like him at all!

It was best he did as he was told.  He didn't want to stoke any fires.

"Now.  I understand.  I'll be right on my way.  I'll fly off to Praxus, pick up Brawl, and come right back. "  He stepped forward, half-expecting that Onslaught would not let him go, but he met with no resistance.

"I'll see you soon," was all that his leader said, before dismissing him from the room.

It took all of the energy Blast Off could muster to keep himself from outright fleeing.  As it was, his pace was quicker than usual.  All he wanted was to get out of here, complete his mission, and (hopefully) get Onslaught back to normal. 

Swindle was waiting for him in the hall.

"So?" he said, a knowing grin on his face.

Blast Off brushed past him without a word.  He was not in the mood.  Not that that stopped Swindle.

"Not the mech you thought he was?  Shadier?  Crueler?  Darker?"

"Onslaught has always been calculating," Blast Off assured.  "I don't know why you're trying to drive a wedge between us, Swindle, but I'd appreciate if you would quit it."

"Who says that's what I'm doing?"

Blast Off didn't have an answer for that.  Swindle was an intolerable little mech who clearly harbored some kind of resentment towards Onslaught for dragging him into this situation.  And Blast Off, for his part, was done allowing himself to be caught in the middle.  He brushed by with a growl, and Swindle made no further move to impede him.  Good. 

But even as he marched down the hall, out of headquarters, to the air fields, even as he transformed into a shuttle and took off for Praxus as fast as he could, he felt Swindle's words taking root within him.  He had been with Onslaught for six hundred years, but this was the first time he'd ever experienced doubt.  What was his life becoming?


	5. Day 1: Cover Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawl is going home, provided he doesn't do anything unbelievably stupid before he gets there.

"So, does this mean I'm free to go?"  It was difficult to tell.  Brawl was pretty sure that he hadn't slipped up in his interrogation.  He'd followed Vortex's script to the letter, even when his smooth-talking teeny tiny two-wheeler interrogator did the unexpected and treated him perfectly civil-like.  He'd almost made a fatal error when the guy tried to confuse him with weird metaphors and twitsy turny logic, but the helpful reminder permanently engraved in his visor (Primus, he was gonna thrash Vortex for that) had ensured that he remember himself.

But it turned out to not be such a big deal in the end anyway.  About an hour into the affair, a big, baby-blue, heavy civilian truck entered the room, called off his lackeys, and pulled Brawl out in cuffs, leading him to a holding cell where he'd been ever since.  The two wheeler had returned not long after, accompanied by a fussy little ambulance, who was eyeing Brawl suspiciously, making sure to keep a lot of space.  What was _that_ all about?

"It means," said the two-wheeler, "that you're being extradited back to Kaon.  We can't pin nothing on you here; which is fine.  I don't think you're guilty of anything but bein' in the wrong place wrong time, no matter what Blades is thinkin'."

"Sorry, 'extradited?'"

"It means," said the ambulance, "That you're wanted for a crime down in Kaon.  They heard you got caught here, and they want to try you there."

Brawl tensed at that.  What crime could he have committed in Kaon?  He was Onslaught's – well, not _right_ hand mech, or left hand even, but somewhere in that vicinity.  The point was, he was a big deal, and Onslaught always got him off, no matter how bad the thing he did was.  Kaon had no reason to 'extradite' him or whatever.  "So I'm not free."

"Sorry buddy," said the two wheeler.  "I do hate to see a mech locked up, but sometimes that's the way it's gotta be."

"Right . . . " Brawl let out a heavy sigh.  He didn't like any of this.  He'd woken up this morning, expecting a perfectly normal day.  He'd taken his energon, fragged that cute two-wheeler in accounting until she was screaming his name, cleaned the neighborhood of trash, and then reported to Onslaught like always.  But then the whole anonymous threat thing happened, and he'd been shipped off with Blast Off and Vortex to bag Swindle.  That had been bad enough without  getting knocked out, and waking up in prison.  And now he was getting shipped back to Kaon to answer for a crime he had no business answering for.  Second worst day ever. 

But wait.  Would he be going back alone?

"What about Vortex?"

His captors exchanged a glance, before the two wheeler spoke up.  "What about him?"

"I mean, is he getting 'extradited' too?"

"Why would he be?  You two partners in crime?"  That stupid cycle was looking at him with the sweetest, most clueless little smile on his face.  And that was how Brawl knew just how terribly he'd fucked up.  He may not have been as smart as his teammates, but he could tell when he was being manipulated.

"Err, no.  No, I was just wondering what's gonna happen to him.  We uh – well, I . . ." 

_Keep digging that hole for yourself, and you're gonna have to replace your turret with a shovel._

"I love him, you see."

_Yup.  That's it.  No more guns for you, Brawl.  You're a disgrace._

His innermost thoughts sounded a lot like Vortex, whispering in his audio receptor.  Oh, how he hated it.  So he'd gone and made a bad situation worse.  Why hadn't the little aft slagger carved an answer for _this_ scenario into his visor too?

And his captors were staring at him with matching looks of baffled befuddlement.  The ambulance was the first to speak.

"You . . . love him?"

"That's what I said.  What?  You got a problem with that?"  He really hoped he sounded threatening.  And indeed, the little, big-eyed freak backed down at that.

"N-no.  I'm just – er, surprised."

"Could explain why he was all over you back in your cell," the two-wheeler speculated.  "Though I just thought that was because he was an all-around flirty sort.  Not sure if that's a _copter_ thing or –"

"Groove!" the ambulance admonished.  "That's Functionist!  You can't say that."

"My bad," Groove sighed.  "Not like _you_ bein' surprised with the notion of a _tank_ falling in love."

"That wasn't it at all!  What's _with_ you today?  You can't say things like that!"

"Not even if they're true?"

What were these two on about?  War builds weren't allowed to fall in love now?  What kind of nonsense was _that_?  Sure, _Brawl_ wouldn't be caught dead subjecting himself to something so sentimental as falling in love but . . . but actually, that _was_ his cover story, wasn't it?  _Good thinking, Brawl.  Now you gotta make it so._

"Ah, no you're right," he tried, in the most authentic voice he could manage, no less.  "Vortex is – um . . ."  What?  'Great?'  No, too generic.  'Good in the sack?'  Nah.  That wasn't _nearly_ sappy enough.  Maybe 'luscious?'  Yeah, he'd heard Blast Off use that one before, to describe . . . the moons or some such shit.  Was Vortex comparable to the moon?

"That good, eh?" the two-wheeler grinned, and oh how Brawl longed to punch the smirk from his face.

   Now they thought him either a liar or a lovesick fool, and frankly, he didn't know which was worse.  No self-respecting tank should have been caught dead in such a ridiculous situation.  He was a proud and powerful warrior!  They should've been cowering before him!   And yet here they were, patronizing him, making fun of him.  It was shameful, is what it was. 

"Actually?" he growled, in hopes of saving what little dignity he had left.  "I don't gotta explain myself to you two!  I didn't do nothing wrong!"

"Except whatever it is they're trying you for in Kaon," Groove corrected, though it didn't sound quite like his spark was in it.

"Well, tough luck, buddy!  Even _I_ don't know what the frag they're trying me for in Kaon!  A parking ticket maybe?"  Judging by the looks the pair were fixing on him, he was not much helping his case for badassery.  He folded his arms below his chest, his optics narrowing in his best effort at a menacing stare.  His captors were unmoved.

"Look," he sighed.  "I just – I'm worried about him.  We came in together, but he's not here.  I just wanna know where he is."  There.  _That_ sounded honest, didn't it?  And it wasn't even a lie!  _Good one, Brawlie!  I knew you could do it!_

He gave his Vortex-faced internal monologue a mental high five.  Finally, he'd done something right.

"Sorry buddy," Groove shrugged.  "That's privileged information.  Though I might be willing to make a trade."

A trade?  For knowledge of Vortex's whereabouts?  It _could_ be worth it, perhaps, but the last thing he wanted was to subject himself to another round of questioning.  He sank further into his seat, turning his gaze towards the floor.

"Guess that's a 'no' then."

~~~

It had been a long time since Brawl had been required to sit still and shut up for more than a few hours.  He was rusty, sure, but on the whole did a pretty admirable job.  The guards didn't bother him; he didn't bother them.  No major Family secrets were revealed.  He was feeling pretty decent about himself, worry over Vortex's current whereabouts notwithstanding. 

And then Blast Off arrived.

He was agitated.  Brawl hated when Blast Off was agitated. 

He came barging into the room, EM field pressed tight, but Optics narrowed and movements rushed.  When he spoke, it was with clipped words and brief sentences.  Brawl had expected some kind of greeting, but that was too much to ask for.  Blast Off only had eyes for the guards.

"I am here for Brawl.  Here's my identification.  Give him to me, and we'll be off."

The guards exchanged a skeptical look, and the two wheeler stepped forward to inspect the tablet Blast Off was holding out.  "You work for the Senator, eh?"

"I do."

"And if I may ask, what exactly are y'all bringing in Brawl for?"

"You may not ask."

"Oh.  Okay then."

The three exchanged barely any words after that.  Some paperwork was signed and transferred, and soon, Brawl was walking out the door behind Blast Off, no longer in cuffs, though his guards had cited city policy as an excuse to keep him from reloading his cannon.  Stupid functionist Praxians.  Nowhere else on Cybertron had he been treated so poorly just for being forged with treads and a turret.  Brawl was eager to see the backside of this city.

And perhaps more than a little worried.  He hadn't missed the fact that they'd left the station sans a certain perturbing helicopter.

"Blast Off?" he asked, one he figured they were out of danger.  "Where's Vortex?  Is he not coming with us?"

From his position, it was easy to see Blast Off's shoulders stiffen, his fists clench.  But it took him a long moment to actually give voice to his anger.  "No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's an idiot who got himself in a lot of trouble.  He's staying here for awhile."

Brawl considered that.  How badly had Vortex fucked up that even _Onslaught_ couldn't or wouldn't help him?  To be fair, it wasn't _that_ hard to imagine.  Vortex himself had seemed a bit nervous back in the cell, and Vortex didn't get nervous.  The question wasn't where was Vortex now, or why.  The question was 'what happens to him now?'  Somehow, he didn't think that Blast Off wanted to talk about it.  Not that he'd let _that_ stop him from trying.

"Okay, so, what happens now?"

Blast Off kept walking, not bothering to stop and join Brawl in stationary conversation like civil mechs.  That was fine.  If he got far enough away, Brawl could recalibrate his targeting systems with the back of that smug head as his focus.  What, he was too good to answer a question now?

On the other hand, Blast Off was his ticket out of here.  It was probably best he not do anything to get left behind.  A few quick paces, and he was back at his side.

"Fine, don't wanna talk?  Whatever.  How many centuries we been a team?  I'd'a thought you'd be over your shuttle snobbishness by now."

"And I'd have thought you'd have grown past your immaturity and idiocy.  Yet here we are."

Ooh, Blast Off was trading barbs.  He _must_ have been in a bad mood.

"Wow," Brawl  laughed.  "I ain't never seen anyone but Vortex get under your plating like that.  What's eating you?"

He saw those broad shoulders stiffen, if only for a moment.  Blast Off was back to ignoring him.  Great.  Onslaught had sent their least fun teammate to come take him home.  Why did it have to be _Vortex_ to get locked up?  Life was never boring when Vortex was around.  Blast Off, on the other hand, was like, the polar opposite.  If anyone could sap his will to live, it would be Blast Off.

They kept on for half a cycle, until they'd reached an open port, constructed to allow flight frames to take off with greater ease.  This was it then.  They were going back home, brotherhood be damned.  From here on in, it would be back to Kaon – just him, Blast Off, Onslaught, and Swindle.

. . .

Primus, he almost preferred prison.  He wasn't ready to go back to Onslaught – least of all when Onslaught was a paranoid wreck of a mech.  He hadn't been himself since he'd received that letter.  True, he'd always been kind of a shady guy, but he'd always been a _rational_ , shady guy.  Now here he was, making rash decisions that wound up with his closest allies traipsing across the world, getting arrested, and subsequently abandoned.  The whole thing smelled fishy to Brawl.

"You gonna get in?  Or are you gonna just keep staring?"  Blast Off had transformed.  His loading gate was open.  He was waiting for Brawl to board.  Well then, no reason not to.

"Y-yeah!  I was just . . . just thinkin', is all."  He climbed the ramp and crawled into his companion.  He was never going to get over just how creepy riding around in another bot was.  Blast Off was all warm and vibrating; it was weird.

" _You_ , thinking?"

"Hey!  I can do that sometimes!  I'm not _completely_ dumb!"

"Right."  Blast Off took off, flying at a zillion miles an hour, taking them away from that stupid, uptight city, and also Vortex.

"So," said Blast Off, making idle chatter as he flew across the land at breakneck speeds.  How he thought allowing himself to be distracted in such a way was a good idea was beyond Brawl.  Especially since this was _Blast Off!_   Everyone knew he was allergic to idle chatter.  Brawl gripped his seat a little tighter, just in case.  "What were you thinking about?"

"Err, nothing." 

Blast Off didn't press, which somehow upset Brawl even more.  Damn it all, he wasn't going to let Blast Off pretend he didn't want to talk, when he clearly did!  . . . Primus, now he was confused.

"I mean, well, I was just thinkin', do you think Onslaught's been actin' weird lately?"

Blast Off didn't reply for a moment, though Brawl wasn't sure if he was mulling over the question, or if he was too busy focusing on not getting them killed with his high speed flight bullshit.  Evidently, it was the former.  "He's had a lot on his mind.  That's all."

And what kind of lame-ass non-answer was that?!  " _Please_!  We've been through way worse than some no-name loser trying to up and blackmail our glorious leader.  But Ons has always been a level-headed sort of guy, yeah?  Why then is he ordering us to go to stupid lengths to capture Swindle, and like, _abandoning_ Vortex and shit?  Seems fishy to me."

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Stoic didn't have an answer to that.  Brawl suspected he was in denial.  Blast Off was smart, after all.  If _Brawl_ knew that something was wrong, then Blast Off _definitely_ did. 

But those two always _had_ been close, in a weird sort of way.  Everyone knew that Blast Off was the favorite.  Though what Blast Off thought of Onslaught was anyone's guess.  He was a hard sort of mech to read.  Brawl had known both bots for an equally long time, and yet, he never _could_ figure out how to talk to the stoic shuttle one-on-one.

He'd be better served buckling down, holding on, and waiting for his feet to be solidly on the ground once more.  No more talking necessary.  It would only distract Blast Off, after all.

Of course, it was not meant to be.

"Brawl?" Blast Off said quite suddenly, a hint of worry in his voice.  "Do you hear something?"

He hadn't heard anything before, but now that Blast Off pointed it out, it _did_ sound kind of like . . .

There was an ear-splitting shriek of metal, a heavy kaboom, and suddenly, Brawl was falling – down, down – 10,000 feet, trapped in the belly of an unconscious space shuttle.  Something had hit them – some kind of anti-aircraft missile, most like.  Someone had shot them down, halfway to Kaon.  Someone didn't want them getting home.

Frag it all.  If he survived this, he was going to wring Onslaught's neck for the ungodly hell that was today.


	6. Day 2: Sleuthing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swindle tries to find out for himself what is going on.

What the frag had happened to him?  When he woke up that morning, he'd had his life all together.  His business was running smoothly.  He'd gone three weeks without a single enemy trying (and failing) to hunt him down.  Life couldn't have been better.  But now?  Now he was a half-prisoner in Onslaught's tower, whisked away from everything he knew and loved, because Mr. Tall, Dark, and Obnoxious couldn't keep a hold on his life and lackeys.  It was not a nice time to be Swindle.

Here he was: new city, new clientele, new restrictions – he was going to have to figure out how to get his business off the ground _again_ , and when you worked in the underworld, it was not so easy being a startup, least of all with a smeared reputation hanging over his head.  The affair in Praxus had been a big deal – his own personal designation had been plastered across news stations nationwide.  And while he had not been convicted of doing anything wrong, per say, the fact remained that that particular brand of infamy was not doing him any favors.  And while Onslaught's offer was . . . generous, to say the least, there was only so much Swindle would allow himself to rely on that shady mech for.

_Onslaught is as much of a scheming rat as the rest of them._

And not _just_ a scheming rat.  If his behavior over the course of the previous day was any indication, he was seriously losing his grip on reality.  _Onslaught_ , one of the most composed, calculated mechs Swindle had ever made the acquaintance of, was losing his grip on reality.  What the Pit was in that letter that had him so spooked?  He'd read it.  He'd spoken with Blast Off.  None of this made any _sense_!

But while something was obviously not quite right with Onslaught, Swindle found himself seriously debating whether or not he should even bother pursuing the subject further.  Despite his inherent mistrust of a mech so powerful, the fact remained that, for the time being, Swindle was completely at Onslaught's mercy.  Did he dare risk the ire of his benefactor with an investigation?  It would be very unwise on his part, and potentially devastating should he get caught.  Something told him that Onslaught was not quite willing to listen to reason at the moment.

But on the other hand, there was _some_ sort of looming threat a mere six days away, and no guarantee it would be resolved in such short time.  Would he really be safe sitting here, ignoring the obvious warning signs while his possible doom crept ever closer?

Swindle hadn't gotten as far as he had by playing a reactive fool.

Investigation it was then.  Careful, crafted investigation.  It was perhaps more forward than Swindle was comfortable with, but he couldn't deny that the time limit had him nervous.  There wasn't a moment to waste.

He crawled from his recharge slab – decked in the finest woven-dressings.  Upholstery!   It was a rarity on Cybertron, only afforded to the most elite.  Swindle never left home without it.  From there, it was a short walk into the luxurious hallways beyond.  Onslaught too, was a mech who liked to live large.  Maybe Swindle wasn't the only one who was trying to get as far away from his origins as possible.

And that was where he ran into his first hurdle. 

"Master Swindle, what are you doing out of bed?"

Ah yes, the security detail.  Ostensibly here to protect him.  _Actually_ here to keep him from doing exactly what it was he was trying to do.  Onslaught thought of _everything_ , didn't he?

"Ah – err – Demolishor, was it?  I wasn't aware that I was confined to my room."

The mountain of a mech was easy to bend to his will; Demolishor took a step back, immediately on the defensive.  "You're not.  Of course, you have free run of the facilities!" he hastened to say.  "But Master Onslaught would like it if you were well-rested."

"I'm feeling antsy," Swindle said with an innocent grin.  "I think I'd sleep much better if I could walk around for a bit."  He took a step forward, only to find a big, olive green tank in his way.

"I'd really rather you didn't."

"Oh?" said Swindle again, feigning sweetness.  "Why not?"

Demolishor looked nervous.  "I mean, it's not that you _can't_ wander around on your own –"

"Well good!" Swindle grinned.  "Then I'll be on my way."  He began marching past Demolishor, only to find a hand clutching at his shoulder.

"You really shouldn't."

"Why not?" Swindle retorted.  "Is there something Onslaught doesn't want me to see?"

"What?  No!"

"Then he won't mind if I go out."

"Well – hey!  Where are you going?!"  Swindle had thought he was being clever, marching on by his increasingly-confused bodyguard, but a hand made of tube-like fingers clapped onto his shoulder, and dragged him backwards as he passed by.  Damn.  Evidently the mech was not so easily cowed.  But it didn't matter.  Swindle could still work this.  It was time to take advantage of those big, adorable eyes of his.  He looked up at the guard, lost and innocent.

"That hurt," he whined.  "I thought you were here to _protect_ me!  I'm gonna have to complain to Onslaught now, and then he'll have to replace you.  And as I recall, getting fired from Onslaught Industries doesn't look good on the resume.  He can make your life _very_ difficult, if you know what I mean."

Demolishor's face grew pale, and he released his hold on Swindle.  "I – I didn't _mean_ to!  He just wants me to look after you!  He went through a lot of trouble to bring you here.  He wants you to stay safe."

"So he hires a violent thug of a bodyguard?  I'll have to talk to him about that."

"No!" Demolishor screeched, leaping back.  "Please, you can't tell him!"

Perfection.  Swindle was back on top where he belonged.  "Well, I _could_ be persuaded," he grinned.

"I don't have any money!"  Aww, wasn't that sweet?  The mech knew of his reputation.

"I don't want _money_ ," Swindle countered, as much as it pained him to say.  "All I want is to take a walk – away from intimidating mechs like you.  Who knows _when_ you'll lay your hands on my defenseless little chassis again?"  He hugged himself, playing up his own vulnerability.  Demolishor took yet another step back, adding to their distance.

"So I'll cut you a deal.  You let me out, and I won't utter a word of this exchange to our glorious leader.  Sound good?"

"I –" Demolishor wasn't looking so great, but he didn't have the wit to get himself out of this corner.  Swindle had won.

"Or I could just . . ."  He moved his hand to the side of his helm, as though to activate an old-fashioned commlink – not that _he_ had an old fashioned commlink, but the gesture was unmistakable.

"Okay, okay!  I'll look away!  Just don't get caught!"

Bingo. 

"Thank you kindly," Swindle smiled.  "I'll be back before you know it; don't worry!"  And with that, he was scurrying off down the hall, before Demolishor had the chance to change his mind.  The bodyguard had been an annoying obstacle, albeit not an unforeseen one.  Swindle had no doubt as to why Onslaught had assigned someone to keep watch over him; it wasn't for his protection.

And wasn't _that_ just fishy? 

The first place to check then, was Onslaught's office.  No doubt it would have top-notch security, but Swindle had all of the best gadgets money could buy.  Whatever Onslaught had, it wasn't good enough.

And indeed, he was proven right.  Sure, Onslaught had security cameras – nothing an emp generator wouldn't fix.  He had three different locks – two electronic and a manual, but Swindle had skeleton keys to deal with those.  There was a guard posted, but he was            easily taken out by a stasis bullet.  Swindle was in within a minute.  But that was the easy part. 

Truth be told, he didn't really know what he was looking for.  Something suspicious?  Onslaught's desk would probably be a good place to start.  He didn't _think_ Onslaught would keep damning material in such an obvious place, but what else was there?

The desk was a perfectly ordinary desk.  It was covered in the same stack of tablets that had adorned it this afternoon, albeit stacked much more neatly now.  None of them were particularly interesting.  ' _Mine Yields of Lower Tarn: Chord 450-789,'_ ' _Market Trends: the Top 200 Organizations to Invest in,' 'Up-to-date Guide of Tariffs and Sanctions Within the Greater Galaxy.'_   Riveting stuff.

He rifled through drawers, through shelves, through every nook and cranny of the room, and was rewarded with a fat lot of nothing.  Figured.  Of _course_ Onslaught would keep sensitive information somewhere far more secure than his own office.  His subspace, perhaps?  Not everyone knew that a subspace could be hacked with the right tools; Swindle had victimized plenty of mechs in this way in the past.  But still, a subspace was safe enough.  Certainly more so than an office.  Swindle had his next destination set.

Great.  _Now_ all he had to do was find Onslaught's room (the easy part), break into Onslaught's room (the less easy part), hack Onslaught's subspace (unlikely), find whatever mysterious, incriminating information it was that he was looking for (yeah right), and all without getting caught . . .  Primus, there was no way this plan was going to work.  And not just because it was damn impossible.

"Swindle, what are you doing in my office?  Digging through my desk?  In the middle of the night?"

And wasn't _that_ just peachy?  Well, he couldn't exactly lie to _Onslaught_ about what he was doing.  Slowly, he put his hands up in the air.

"You caught me," he said, grinning.  At least outwardly.  Inside, his tanks were churning.  "I'm snooping through your stuff."

To his credit, Onslaught didn't murder him then and there.  "Yes.  I can see that.  Why?"

"Why?" Swindle repeated, stalling.  He doubted 'I find you suspicious as fuck' would fly.  _Better reason.  Come_ on _Swindle!_ "Onslaught, it's me.  Do you really expect me to _not_ stick my olfactory sensors where they don't belong?"

Onslaught took a moment to think that over.  It _was_ within Swindle's character to dig up dirt on everybody he made acquaintance with, for the purpose of selling it down the road.  Whether or not he suspected an ulterior motive, he did not say.  However, the answer seemed to his satisfaction.  And it was thus, _without_ a sense of murderous intent that he crossed the room, latched onto Swindle's arm, and roughly dragged him from the office.  The reaction was expected, albeit Swindle was surprised to find that he wasn't deposited in front of the door.

"Onslaught?  Where are we –"

"We need to talk."

"Frag, okay!  I get it!  You can let go, frag it, Onslaught, I'm not a doll!"  He struggled to wrench himself to freedom, but Onslaught's grip was solid.  Not as painful as he tried to make it appear, but short of cutting off his own arm, he wasn't about to get free any time soon.  Primus, he hated when people picked him up and carried him around – just because he was small.  It was an insult, is what it was.  Nobody would have pulled that shit with Brawl.  Because Brawl was big, and therefore, deserving of respect.

And Swindle had none of that.  Not anymore.  Onslaught may have bribed him into complacency with this fancy scheme of his, but in the process, he'd ripped from Swindle any smidgen of respect he'd managed to garner in the past hundred years.  It was a travesty, one that Onslaught could never understand. 

He and Onslaught had come from similar origins – both ex-military mechs, dropped into a society that hated them once they'd served their purpose.  And both had refused to accept it.  Onslaught had build up Onslaught Industries, had played the game of the senators, and weaseled his way into being one of the single most powerful mechs on Cybertron.  And Swindle had done similar – he too had played the game, had built up an empire from nothing.  The difference was that Onslaught had inherent power, inherent respect.  Without his empire, Onslaught would still be a decorated officer of the Quintesson wars.  But without _his_ empire, Swindle was nothing – just a shrimpy, fragile little transport.  And Onslaught had made Swindle nothing again.

Fragger.

Eventually he ran out of energy to struggle; the rest of the trek was made in silence, the destination?  Onslaught's personal chambers.  That was an odd choice.  

Swindle said nothing as he was dropped unceremoniously on the berth, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.  He shifted his position, trying to make himself comfortable on the obnoxiously soft surface.  How did Onslaught sleep like this?  A berth was supposed to be firm!

"Is there something you would like to say to me?" Onslaught asked, taking a seat on a desk chair across the room.

"To the guy who cuts my paycheck?  Of course not!  I do have _some_ wits left about me."

"Not enough to keep you from snooping through my things, however."

"Well," Swindle hesitated, "no, apparently not.  But that's how the game is played.  You gotta dig up dirt on your enemies, otherwise you may as well strap a beacon to your chest and let the big guys use you for target practice.  I gotta have _some_ kind of bargaining chip, Onslaught.  I refuse to let myself be so powerless.  And since I no longer got guys to do this stuff for me, courtesy of Vortex, Brawl, and Blast Off, I gotta do this for myself."

"You're out of practice, it would seem," Onslaught scoffed.  " _Really_ , Swindle?  Did you think that I would leave incriminating information lying around my office?"

"Well, no," Swindle admitted.  "But I didn't have a whole lot to go on.  Everyone's been acting mad, and I wasn't about to just sit around in my room and wait for the next, what, five days now?  To catch me by surprise."

Onslaught stiffened.  "And you think that _I_ have something to do with it?"

Primus, how paranoid _was_ this guy?  "I don't know – maybe there was something you missed.  It doesn't hurt to have a second set of eyes y'know."

"Yet you decided to work behind my back."

Onslaught had him there.  "Okay, yes.  Not my brightest moment.  I'll give you that."

"No, it was not," he agreed, interlacing his fingers beneath his chin, elbows rested on his knees.  Could this guy look any more like a villain?  He took another long moment to let the intimidation kick in before speaking again.  "I expect it will not happen again."

Was that it?  No way that was it.  Onslaught wouldn't have dragged him all the way out here if he just wanted to slap Swindle on the wrist and send him on his way with a stern warning. 

Well, wasn't that ominous?

"Of course not, Boss.  You can count on me to never slip up twice!"  He grinned his biggest grin, fully aware that Onslaught wasn't buying it.  Without dropping the face, he shifted further back onto the berth, still in an effort to get comfortable.  His feet didn't touch the ground, even when seated at the edge; it was demeaning was what it was.  He may as well go for casual.  With any luck it would distract Onslaught.

"What are you doing?"

Bingo.  Swindle could smell the barest hint of charge, and there was a small twitch to Onslaught's visor.  So he wasn't _completely_ immune from the common failings of a mech.  "Isn't this why you asked me here?"

Onslaught sputtered.  "N-no!"  Aww, Onslaught was so cute when he was embarrassed.  "I called you here so that we could talk in private."

Oh?

"What about?"

It took Onslaught a good long moment to calm himself.  "Since you are so keen to get to work right away, I suppose I can indulge you."  He rested his clenched fists in his lap.  Still a _little_ flustered at least.  Swindle could see why Vortex loved pushing everyone's buttons; it was fun.  "Let's talk about the letter."

"Okay, let's."  Swindle was curious enough.  Just what did Onslaught have to say for himself?

"Why is it you do not believe me when I tell you what it is?  And don't give me the run around here.  We can go in circles all day.  But I need the truth if we're going to make this alliance work."

Swindle thought it over for a moment, choosing each word carefully.  This was going to be tricky.  "Well, it just – it doesn't seem your style.  I mean, I haven't worked with you in a century, but I always remember you being really put together.  Some vague letter promising vengeance, a hundred years after the fact, no less, doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would have you acting – well, like an idiot.  The Onslaught I know would have used blackmail and bribery to find the sender and take him out in the shadows; nobody needs to know.  But you?  Sending Brawl and Vortex to Praxus to abduct me, paying me off with – with a whole lot of money," he couldn't help drooling at the thought.  It _was_ a whole lot of money.  But he regathered himself quickly enough.  "They way you've been treating Blast Off.  Not one part of it makes a lick of sense.  And coming from a self-proclaimed 'master strategist' like yourself, something about the whole affair seems rather fishy."

Swindle wondered if he'd said too much.  Onslaught appeared to be lost in thought, taking in every word Swindle said, and searching for the least-suspicious response.  If he had nothing to hide, surely he wouldn't have to think about how to defend himself.

Then again, when did Onslaught _not_ have something to hide?

"So, you think that there is something off about my behavior."

"Well, yeah."

"Perhaps there is," he sighed, slumping over.  "I've been tired.  Because you're right; there _is_ more to this letter nonsense than meets the eye.  I've been working at it all day, and have made quite the progress, but I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to discuss the gritty details with you – there is no one in this world I trust enough to confide in.  What I _can_ tell you is that I believe that I know the identity of the sender, and, if I am correct, it is someone I can neither buy off, nor quietly dispose of.  And I _do_ in fact, know why he would have waited one _hundred_ bleeding years to act; it is not so strange to me.  As for the five of us being together?  That was insurance.  I have a plan."

"Do you _really_ think that's good enough to win me over?"

Onslaught shrugged.  "It has to be."  Even _he_ wasn't that naïve.  He sat up straighter, bolder, looked Swindle in the eye.  "You can have the letter if you want; investigate as you like.  I will not stand in your way, but I _cannot_ help you beyond that.  I am sorry, Swindle."

Well, it was better than nothing.  And his brain module liked the thought of piecing together the puzzle in front of him.  It didn't come close to the feeling of sweet, sweet cash, but that particular boon was in no short supply these days, and with his business barred to him for the time being, solving the mystery would have to do.  It was the first step in getting his life back.  "Fine.  Okay, sure.  I'll take it."

Onslaught reached behind his back, pulling the damned tablet from his subspace (of _course_ it was in his subspace), and tossed it to Swindle, who fumbled to catch it.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Read."

_Onslaught,_

_I know what you did.  You and Swindle, Vortex, Blast Off, and Brawl.  You're guilty.  And I'm going to prove it to the world.  And then, I am going to make you suffer.  Each and every one of you – just as I have suffered.  You'll wish you had died a hundred years ago, with_ him _.  That I promise you.  Resolve your affairs now.  You have seven days._

The words were unchanged.  The message was what he'd expected.  But surely there had to be more there.  Onslaught said he knew the identity of its sender.  Had he worked out the answer from the letter itself, or did he have another source?

Looking up, however, revealed an Onslaught who didn't seem ready to answer.  He was staring out the window, north, towards Praxus, a frown worrying at the corners of his mouth.  He was thinking about Blast Off, no doubt.  He'd been gone for too long; Onslaught was growing nervous.  Swindle was too, to be honest.  Of the lot of Onslaught's cronies, Blast Off was the most tolerable.  It would be a shame, had anything happened to him on Onslaught's order.

"Was there anything else you needed?" Onslaught asked without averting his eyes from the window.

"No.  No I guess not."

"Good.  I will have Demolishor will take you back to your room.  Do not sneak out again."

Damn it all!  This wasn't the reaction he'd wanted.  But it was what it was.  Onslaught was terse for the moment; he'd be more amenable later.  In the meantime, Swindle at least had something to puzzle over in the grating hours spent away from his business.  It was something at least.

"Sure thing, Boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna have to go back through at some point to make sure the continuity all matches up. This is what happens when I take this long between chapters x.x


	7. Day 2: Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vortex finds out about more than he expected from within the walls of a prison.

Vortex wasn’t bored; not yet.  He’d spent a good deal of his life in prisons.  This one was no different than the rest.  Well, it had its own little quirks – the green tint of the floor lights, the sacrifice of furniture for space; even Brawl could have fit in this cell without problem, but when it came to sitting, his only option was the floor.  That was fine too.  Vortex didn’t mind the floor.  It was cold and hard, and reminded him, in a twisted way, of a home he’d long since abandoned.  Good times.

That being said, he wasn’t exactly thrilled with his current predicament.  He was supposed to be back in Kaon right now, fragging Onslaught, or possibly Blast Off, whichever – enjoying his luxurious lifestyle.  He certainly wasn’t supposed to be in prison; that hadn’t been part of the plan.  The plan had been get in, get Swindle, get out – minimal property damage, no death, no mess.  Sure, he’d blown up a city street, but no one got hurt, as fun as that would have been.  And yet here they were, trying him for terrorism?

Not that he was _completely_ clueless.  He’d heard the explosions, in the brief time that he’d lost track of Swindle.  In retrospect, he probably should have tried to be a little less high profile.  Someone seemed to have capitalized on his mistake to wreak a little havoc of his own.  

Primus, this sucked.  He was in jail, set for execution, and hadn’t even gotten to kill the victims with his own hands.  His only consolation at a time like this was the knowledge that, no matter what was happening, Onslaught was certain to be a few steps ahead.  He already had a hunch as to the identity of the blackmailers, at least as of the mission briefing he’d given Vortex yesterday.  Perhaps that hunch had grown into a certainty.  Perhaps there was a reason he’d left Vortex in prison.  Barring complete incompetence on Onslaught’s part (psh!  Yeah right!), Vortex was in here now only because there was something Onslaught wanted him to learn, something that he could only find out from within a Praxian prison.  But what?

Down the hall, he could hear the sharp, electronic whirr of the security doors sliding open, followed by familiar, light footsteps.  This was Blades; Vortex was pretty sure.  What was he doing down here?  And more importantly, could he possibly have had the sort of knowledge that Vortex needed?  He rolled onto his stomach, and stretched out across the floor, burying his face flat on the ground.

“Wake up,” Blades snapped.

“Mmm, make me,” Vortex mumbled, his words muffled.  Blades seemed to understand, at least.

“I don’t have time for games, Vortex.  You’ve got an interrogation to get to.”

Vortex perked up at that.  He crawled to his knees.  “Another one?  Was one not enough?”

“My boss wanted to speak with you himself.  Lucky you.  This could be your chance to net a lighter sentence.  Y’know, if you cooperate.  Which you won’t.  Because you’re an obstinate little freak.  But orders are orders, so I’m bringing you in.”

“All alone?”  Vortex smiled an innocent smile looking around the otherwise empty room.  It struck him as a little strange, but he’d take any opportunity he could get to annoy this easily goaded aft.

“I’m more than enough to handle you.”

“Hmm?  This wouldn’t happen to be a _secret_ interrogation, would it?  The kind you don’t want the average employee to know about.”

Blades narrowed his eyes.  “Enough chatter.  Stand up.”

“Hmmm, no.”

For his efforts, Vortex was rewarded with a shot from an EMP blaster.  His frame fell limply to the ground, his mind blacked out, transforming his world to a static, screaming hellscape.  It was white hot agony, wracking his immobile body, and he didn’t even have enough presence of mind to enjoy it.  

The next thing he knew, he was being deposited onto a hard, uncomfortable chair, hands cuffed to the table in front of him.  The room was poorly-lit (or his optics had shorted.  One of the two), but he could still clearly see the three grim mechs sitting across from him.  One was Blades, one was Pouty Lips, and the third was a mech Vortex didn’t recognize – a powder blue giant.  The ladder on his back implied some kind of emergency vehicle; what was he doing working for the Enforcers?

“Hello Vortex,” the mech said.

“Hello beautiful,” Vortex replied, reveling the suddenly stiff set to the mech’s shoulders.

“You will not talk to Hot Spot that way!” Blades hissed, pounding his fist on the table, enough so to rattle the flimsy thing.  

“Blades, please.  Now is not the time.”

Much to Vortex’s surprise, Blades actually backed down at this.  He wore a sour expression on his face, but his hands hung loosely, balled into fists.  So this Hot Spot was his superior then.

“So,” Vortex piped up, “as much as it thrills me to see your lovely faces, I have to ask why y’all brought me all the way up here.  I thought I was set for execution.”

Hot Spot raised an optic ridge, and shot Blades a questioning look.  Had Pouty Lips lied about the execution without trial?  Also interesting.

“At the moment,” Hot Spot began, returning his red gaze to Vortex, “execution is the favored approach to handling you.  However, I am prepared to negotiate on your behalf.”

“Provided?”

Hot Spot cocked his head.  “I’m sorry?”

“Oh come on,” Vortex laughed, wishing that these cuffs had a little more slack.  He would have loved to lean back in his chair right about now.  “There’s always a catch to an opener like that.  What is it you want me to do?  Tell you who I’m working for?  ‘Cause I already told you all I’m gonna.  I’m a war frame.  Death doesn’t really faze me.”

This time, Hot Spot turned to Pouty Lips.  “Streetwise?  If you would.”

Pouty Lips (or Streetwise, apparently), pulled a pocket-projector from his subspace, and activated it.  Over his hands, it broadcast a picture of the wreckage at Praxus’s primary transit tunnel.  Well, now he knew what he was being framed for.

“Shame,” he said.

Before Blades had time to lunge forward with another tirade, Hot Spot spoke up.  “Tell me, Vortex, do you see anything strange about this crime scene?”

Vortex observed it, enjoying the chaos of total strangers fleeing in a panic.  Reveling in the screams, the fear, nearly wishing he had been the one to cause it himself, just as these afts seemed to think.  At least he’d have a good reason to be up for execution.  The scene honestly looked like fun.  But he couldn’t help but notice that the camera was fixed, not following the frenzy of the scene it had recorded.  There was something in the scenery that Vortex was meant to note.  How cruel, to make him focus on the background, and not on the havoc.

“Well,” he said, at length, scrutinizing the crime scene.  What was it that Hot Spot wanted him to see?  What?  What?   _That_ , maybe?  “It looks like a lot of fun.  Wish I coulda been there,” he sighed, prompting Blades to actually lunge forward this time, slamming his hand on the table once again.

“Don’t play dumb with us!  Twenty-two mechs lost their lives in this disaster you orchestrated!”

“Twenty-two?” he asked.  “Really?  Praxians must be pretty week if a measly little explosion was enough to kill so many.”

“Watch your tongue!”  The only thing that kept Blades from lunging over the table in his rage was Hot Spot's hand.

“Vortex, do you see what I’m talking about, or not?”

“How am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” he snorted.  “I’m not psychic you know.”

“Perhaps not, but there is something in this image, something that could save your life, if you play it right.”

Vortex cocked his head, raising an optic ridge.  “What?  You ain’t talking about that Decepticon graffiti on the wall, are you?”

In unison, Blades and Streetwise stumbled backward.  Blades wasn’t a surprise, but it was amusing to see the hologram flicker as the normally-calm Streetwise reacted to his understated observation.

“Oh, did I win?” Vortex laughed.

“Yes,” Hot Spot nodded.  “The Decepticon graffiti is indeed what I was hoping you’d notice.  The security camera was blanked out during the actual explosion; the symbol wasn’t there before the attack; I think it’s clear that the Decepticons were involved.”

“That, or someone who wants to frame them,” Vortex shrugged.

“Perhaps.”  All optics in the room were on Vortex now, as though waiting for him to spill the beans.  They’d be waiting for a long time.  He didn’t have the answers they sought.

“Either way, it has nothing to do with me.”

“Don’t play dumb!” Blades hissed, lunging over the table to slam Vortex’s helm into it, despite Hot Spot’s protests.  The pain was rather enjoyable, but he was too curious to play up his pleasure at the moment.  “We know that story about you being a salesmech is a load of slag!  We may not have been able to hold your companion, but _you_ aren’t in a position to lie to us.  We have witnesses – a grey helicopter was on a suicide flight around the city, was seen firing missiles in populated areas, we have evidence that your cannons were fired multiple times earlier that day.  You did it,” he asserted.  “Now tell us about your friends, and we might just give you a lighter sentence.”

“Hmm,” Vortex said, twitching his rotors in mock distress.  Blades backed off, but the fire in his blue optics made it clear that he was ready to attack again at a moment’s notice.  Vortex half wanted him to, but now was probably not the time.  He didn’t know about the Decepticons, but it was clear just what had happened.

Onslaught had been played.  The Decepticons were almost certainly behind the ambiguous threat Onslaught had received, though the exact details were still a mystery.  Someone out there had almost certainly anticipated that Onslaught would send someone to come get Swindle, that that particular someone would be Vortex, and that Swindle would resist.  Alternatively, someone had gotten very lucky and capitalized on the attack, but the timing was a bit much for Vortex to simply accept without speculating.  He, Onslaught’s left hand mech, was here to be the fall guy for the Decepticons, who had a deep personal grudge against Onslaught for the massacre of a hundred years back.  Even if he was reaching, it was the best he had at the moment.

“You want me to tell you about the Decepticons in exchange for a lighter sentence?”

“That is what we are offering, yes.”  Onslaught nodded, folding his hands on the table in front of him.  Blades remained tense and guarded, and Streetwise deactivated the hologram, crossing his arms over his chest.  

“Well,” Vortex chuckled, “I got no love for those guys, but ask me what you wanna know, and I’ll tell you if I can.”

“Don’t play dumb!” Blades hissed, but Hot Spot held up a hand.

“Where is their headquarters?”  

“That, I don’t know.”

“How many strong are they?”

“Hmm, a couple hundred maybe?”  Vortex rested his chin on the table, tapping his fingers in a frustrated rhythm.  He hated not having the answers.  

_C’mon guys, ask the right questions._

“What do they want?” Streetwise ventured.   _There_!  Streetwise was indeed a wise mech.

“Well,” Vortex sighed, “aside from to royally fuck up my day?  Seems to me someone in their upper echelons’s got a beef with Onslaught Industries.  They’re lookin’ to take ‘em down.”

Blades narrowed his eyes, but it was Hot Spot to speak.  “Onslaught Industries?  What makes you say this?”

“It’s a hunch,” Vortex shrugged, sitting up in his seat.  “The Decepticons are anti-establishment, yeah?  And Onslaught Industries?  Pretty much _is_ the establishment, I think we can all agree.”  No one said anything to the contrary.  “Though I suspect it goes deeper than that.”

“You don’t know?” Streetwise asked.

“Well,” Vortex groaned, flicking a rotor in lieu of the hands he couldn’t move, “I already told you that I work for myself, but let’s say I _did_ work for the Decepticons.  Do you really think someone like me, who they send out to commit an act like this, only to leave on the chopping block, would have any sort of position of authority?”

Streetwise glanced to Hot Spot.  “He’s got a point, Sir.”

“Of course I do,” Vortex laughed.  The joy was hollow, a fact that Blades seemed to pick up on.  

“Yet you know what they’re up to.”

“It’s my guess.  Take it or leave it.  Either way, I’ve been cooperative.  That’s good for me, right?”

Hot Spot frowned, tapping a finger to his chin.  “Yes, I suppose you have.”

“Sir!  He’s told us nothing of any value!  You can’t honestly consider giving him a lighter sentence for this.”  Blades really had it in for him, didn’t he?

“We know more now than we did before.  That will have to do.”  He nodded to Vortex.  “Thank you for your assistance.  I will discuss matters of your sentencing with my boss.  In the meantime, Blades here will escort you back to your cell.”

“Thank you kindly!” Vortex beamed, still not feeling it.  How much did Onslaught know?  And what did Onslaught want him to find out, here in this prison?  The Decepticons were definitely a threat, one that had been known, but had still come as a surprise.  How had they messed up so bad?  And how were they going to fix it now?

Vortex sighed, allowing Blades to ram him with and EMP Probe, and drag him back to his cell.  

There was nothing he could do right now but trust Onslaught, and try his best to find out what the Decepticons were planning.  In the meantime, he’d need to come up with a plan on his own.  He could pull it off.  Onslaught needed him to pull it off.  He just had to figure out how.


	8. Day 2: Far From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawl wakes up in the aftermath of a devastating shuttle crash.

Primus, everything hurt.  He was pretty sure that the barrel of his cannon had snapped off.  His plating had caved, pressing painfully on his internal mechanisms, his processor was an explosion of agony, and he was pretty certain he’d managed to get sand between each and every one of his joints.  But he was alive.  Blearily, he forced his optics to flicker on.  Once his vision cleared, he shot right up, ignoring the pain and weakness in his own frame.

“Blast Off?!”

Frag it all, that was Blast Off’s head, torso, and left arm, lying broken but still a pale brown on the ground ahead.  A shattered leg was strewn across a nearby rock, though the remaining limbs were still missing.  “Blast Off!”  Brawl raced over, collapsing to his knees, and fussing over the battered Shuttle, hoping that the wounds weren’t life-threatening.

It was worse than he’d thought.  Blast Off’s frame was burned, all of the paint from his right side had been scraped off in the fall, as well as much of his plating.  A gaping hole had been blasted into the middle of his torso, still leaking energon.  Frag, frag, frag!  How was he supposed to fix this?

“Hang in there, buddy!” he said, reaching for the medkit he kept in his subspace  – thank Primus the enforcers had given it back!  At the very least, he could patch up the hole, though the rest of Blast Off’s injuries were beyond him.  He wished that Vortex was here; he’d know what to do.

What had even happened to them?  One moment, Blast Off had been flying back to Kaon, the next they’d collided with something, and fell out of the sky.  The obvious answer was that they had been shot down.  But by whom?  And why?

Brawl didn’t have any answers at all.  All he knew was what the others told him, and that wasn’t very much at all.  He’d been arrested for a crime he hadn’t known about, and now he was being shot out of the sky on his way home, forced to helplessly stand by and watch his buddy suffer.

He applied the weld as best as he could; it would at least keep Blast Off’s insides on the inside.  For now at least.  It was a miracle he’d survived at all, given the height Blast Off preferred to fly at.  But with that finished, he had no idea what to do next.  His own comm had been fried by the impact; there was no calling for help.  He had no idea where he was or how to get back to Kaon from here.  Brawl was stranded in some sort of canyon in the middle of nowhere with his dying friend and no escape.  It was too much for one mech to bear.

But bear it he did.

He gathered up the pieces of Blast Off he could still find, before hoisting his friend into his arms, and walking off in one of the two directions available to him.  There was no destination in mind; all he could do was hope that he’d find shelter up ahead, that Blast Off would wake up and fix everything.  For once, he was in luck.

It didn’t take him too long to find the cave.

Somebody lived there; that much was clear from the moment he entered.  There were empty cubes on the floor, knick knacks, a small weapons stockpile.  Brawl didn’t see it as a threat.  If someone was around, that meant there was someone who could help him and Blast Off.  There was even a berth, albeit a small and shoddy one.  Still, a berth was a berth.

He laid Blast Off down gently, tenderly.  It killed him to see his friend like this; he and Blast Off went way back together, to their war days.  Blast Off had always been strong, smart, distant, and unapproachable.  Never once in their three vorns of war had Brawl seen him take a serious hit.  To see him here, now, a broken shell of his former self, felt wrong.

There were more medical supplies here, but Brawl had no idea how to reattach a limb, or rewire burnt circuits, or even disable pain sensors.  In his hands, these tools were useless, but maybe there was some kind of communication device in here he could use to place a call to the outside?  He began to rifle around, making a lot of noise as he shifted empty cubes aside and dropped old data tablets on the floor.  As such, he nearly didn’t notice the light frame sneaking up on him.  Only his warrior’s instincts saved him from a disabling blow.

Brawl whirled around, pinning the smaller grounder to the wall, hard enough to dent his chest plating and make him drop the taser in his hand.  The mech cried out in alarm and pain, and even put up a cursory struggle, but he had no chance against Brawl’s superior might.  One more wall slam did the trick.

“I give up!  I give up!” he cried out.  “Frag it all!”

Brawl loosened his grip, if ever so slightly.  “Who are you?  And why are you here?”

“I  _ live _ here, you dolt!” the mech choked back, only to yelp again as Brawl pressed in tighter.  “K-Knock Out!  I’m Knock Out!”  Again, Brawl loosened his grip.

“Did you shoot us down?”

“What?”  Knock Out looked from Brawl to Blast Off’s inert frame on the berth.  “Oh frag, that’s who those idiots took out?”

“What does that mean?!” Brawl snapped, giving the mech another jolt.  “What are you talking about?”

“Stop shaking me!” Knock Out snapped back.  Brawl’s instinct was to shake him again, but he refrained.  A dead mech couldn’t give him answers, and Speedsters were ever so fragile.

“Well?”

“We thought you were a government airship, based on your size.  We couldn’t very well let the government find out we’re down here, now could we?”

“We didn’t even see you,” Brawl growled.  “So you shot us for nothing!”

“Not nothing,” Knock Out shook his head.  “In a position like ours, you can’t be too careful.”

Brawl didn’t like that answer, but he couldn’t think of any retort.  Slowly, he put Knock Out back on the ground, though he made sure to box him in with his superior size.  The flashy Speedster cringed, but didn’t say anything as he crept closer to Blast Off’s still frame.

“Yeesh, they really did a number on him.  Though I guess it’s a miracle he survived at all  – a fall from that height.”  He glanced at Brawl.  “You too, for that matter.  Primus must really like you,” he laughed.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Brawl sighed, daring to take his optics off of Knock Out for a moment to worry over Blast Off.  “I did the best I could, but I don’t think I can fix him.”  He turned his attention back to Knock Out.  “You’ve got some medkits on the floor over there; are you any good with repairs?”

Red optics narrowed in his direction in a surly glare, but the mech was in no position to protest.  “As a matter of fact.”

“Fix him then.  You broke him, you can fix him too.”

Knock Out tried to protest.  “I have limited supplies out here.  You really oughta just  –”

“Money’s no object!” Brawl interrupted, lunging forward.  Again, the smaller mech winced.  “I will pay you whatever you need.  Just save his life, sweet slag!”

At the mention of money, Knock Out’s white lips twisted upward in a greedy grin.  “Well, when you put it that way, I suppose I could help.  How about a hundred shanix?”

“Done!”  Somehow, the stranger seemed surprised by Brawl’s easy agreement.  A hundred shanix was a lot of money for some, but Brawl worked for Onslaught.  He’d long since forgotten what poverty felt like.

“Huh.”  Knock Out’s optics fell back on Blast Off’s frame, a strange and serious look about them.  What was he thinking?  “Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I can’t really refuse.  Very well.  You wait over there.  This will take a few hours.”

Brawl didn’t trust this mech, but Blast Off would likely die without help.  He’d do as he was ordered, even if the notion of being bossed around by a Speedster, of all things, was absolutely ridiculous.

“Do you have a comm I could use?”  Well, maybe not exactly as ordered.

Knock Out scoffed.  “Not likely.  The whole canyon’s under a communications jammer.  Nothing gets in, nothing gets out, nothing I can do.”  He transformed his hand into a torch and turned back to Blast Off.

“Where does the jammer end?”

An irritated sigh escaped the Speedster; his shoulders stiffened.  “I don’t know.  It’s got a pretty big range.”

“Then how do you contact your  – uh  – buddies?”

Knock Out glared over his shoulder.  “We have a system of codes.  Probably not gonna help  _ you _ much.”

Probably not.  But Brawl needed some way to get in contact with Onslaught.  “Where is the jammer located?”

This time, Knock Out whirled around.  “Do you want me to help your friend or not?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Then shut up.  I can’t work with you asking incessant questions.”

“Err, okay.”  He didn’t like being useless.  He didn’t like being broken.  But what could he do?  So with slumped shoulders, Brawl plopped down in the corner, leaned forward, and tried not to think too hard.  Onslaught would figure something out.  Somehow.


	9. Day 2: Defensive Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onslaught prepares for the worst.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  He’d worked hard for vorns, clawed his way from a nothing War Mech straight to the top of the world, had overcome hatred and discrimination and earned his place, his freedom, his power.  And now his world was crumbling down all around him, because of one stupid mistake.  He couldn’t understand it.

He’d worked tirelessly since yesterday morning, sweet-talking senators, consulting texts, news articles, friends and servants, and wracking his his brain in an effort at finding the identity of the mech that dared threaten him.  As senseless as it was, he felt he’d narrowed it down to three mechs, all of whom were meant to be dead.

He pulled out a copy of that horrible datapad, the one that had changed his fate in an instant, and gave it another readover.  

_ I know what you did.  You and Swindle, Vortex, Blast Off, and Brawl.  You're guilty.  And I'm going to prove it to the world.  And then, I am going to make you suffer.  Each and every one of you – just as I have suffered.  You'll wish you had died a hundred years ago, with him.  That I promise you.  Resolve your affairs now.  You have seven days. _

The ‘him’ in question was obviously Megatron.  One hundred years ago exactly, a chaotic sub-faction that called itself the _ Decepticons  _ had taken Onslaught’s unprecedented social and financial success as inspiration, and had risen up under the lead of a popular gladiator, Megatron, to claim their own place in the world.  Though they shared many philosophies, Onslaught could not accept the sometimes-violent methods of these terrorists, least of all when his own properties were put at risk due to their efforts.  He had worked like hell to drag himself out of poverty; as far as he was concerned, these Decepticons were treading in his tire tracks to get the same ends for half the effort.  He found the lot of them distasteful, even if their motives were understandable.

But eventually, as the movement gained momentum, Onslaught determined that his empire would be jeopardized, should the Decepticons be allowed to continue on their destructive path.  And so, one hundred years ago, he had orchestrated the downfall of their leader.  A clever smear campaign had destroyed Megatron’s name, a spy slipped amongst their midst had wreaked havoc on their mission, and Onslaught himself, had assassinated the leader, and left Vortex to run clean-up.  Megatron was well and truly dead, that much was clear.

The same could not be said for his closest confidants: Starscream, Soundwave, and Shockwave.  

Vortex had marked all three as dead, and at the time Onslaught had no reason for doubt, but Vortex had always been a bit of an uncontrollable wildcard, and, as his current predicament dictated, wasn’t immune to flashes of incompetence.  He’d considered thousands of alternatives, but between rumored sightings as recently as twenty years ago, an unshakable loyalty that refused to see Megatron’s name die, and pure, stubborn tenacity, Onslaught had narrowed the culprit down to these three.  The confirmation by Flatfoot of Praxus that Decepticon activity had been noted in the area in recent months only gave credence to his suspicion.

How could he have been so stupid?  How could he have allowed the Decepticons to return to power over the past century, and right under his nose to boot?  If they won due to his negligence, then it was his own fault.  However, he had no intention of letting them win at all.  He knew the game now, and he’d always been terrible at losing.

He had five days to find and eliminate the responsible party, and with all the resources in the world at his disposal, he was confident he could still come out on top.  Still, they’d already forced an unprecedented advantage.  Blast Off hadn’t checked in yet, and Brawl too, was missing.  Swindle was accounted for, if not obnoxiously suspicious of Onslaught and his behavior.  And then there was Vortex.

He’d had time to think it over, and his research had confirmed his suspicions.  Vortex may have been a chaos-loving idiot, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to open fire on a public transit tunnel in broad daylight!  He’d been set up.  Someone, who had likely already been planning such an attack, took advantage of Vortex’s misguided hunt for Swindle, and let him take the blame for their actions.  And that someone was almost certainly a Decepticon.

It was the sad truth of the situation that, if he wanted his plan for survival to work, he’d need to get Vortex out of prison, and he’d have to do it soon.  But Vortex wasn’t the only problem-subordinate on his mind at the moment.   Getting Vortex out of prison was one thing, but tracking down Brawl and Blast Off was quite another.

Which reminded him, it was time to put in another call to Movor, on the satellite team.  Blast Off had been gone for far too long now.  He should have been back hours ago.  Praxus may have been far, but it wasn’t  _ that _ far.  Onslaught was more than a little worried.

He opened his comm.  [ _ Any luck tracking him down? _ ]

[ _ No sir, _ ] admitted the nervous voice of Movor on the other end of the call.  He was a Shuttle, much like Blast Off, but with only a fraction of the competence.  Still, he wasn’t bad for surveillance duty.  [ _ We’ve managed to narrow down his last known coordinates to the Sonic Canyons, but from there, his energy trail disappears. _ ]

Onslaught frowned deeply.  If the energy trail disappeared, then that meant Blast Off had pressed on on foot.  But why would he do such a thing?  [ _ I’m sending in a search crew for those coordinates.  Please keep me posted. _ ]

[ _ Yes sir!  Will do sir!  Movor out. _ ]

Onslaught slumped backwards in his chair.  The news wasn’t good.  He couldn’t imagine any reason for Blast Off to take a stroll through the Sonic Canyons in the middle of a mission.  It didn’t bode well.  Nothing boded well.  His hard-won life of luxury was crumbling to pieces all around him, and he was increasingly finding himself at a loss as to how he’d deal with it.  He looked towards the flask of high grade on his desk; it looked so very appetizing right about now.  How nice it would be, to lose himself in drink.

He refrained, however, if only because a knock had sounded at his door: Demolishor, according to his security feed, here to bring more bad news, no doubt.  “Enter.”

“Ah sir,” said Demolishor, stumbling nervously into the room.  “Sorry to intrude, but  – ah  – this came for you with the mail.  I thought you’d want to see it.”

He passed over the package: a datapad, grey and unmarked  – not the sort of thing that would be found with a regular parcel service.  There was no address, no return address; simply a name: Onslaught.  Onslaught didn’t like this one bit.  This was exactly how the last one had come too.  It seemed that his enemy wasn’t quite done with him yet.

Then again, with any luck, the mech in question would leave a clue behind.

“I’ll take it, thank you,” he said, his fingers unconsciously tensing around the solid edges of the tablet, afraid of what it meant.  “You’re dismissed.”

“Yes sir!”

Onslaught stared at the blank tablet for a long moment  – a moment that extended long after Demolishor left.  He didn’t want to see what was on it, even though he knew he’d have to find out sooner or later.  Steeling his tanks, he at last ran a finger down the side, switching it on.

There was no data, no words or sounds or anything of the sort.  In fact, as best he could tell, the tablet was, by-and-large, devoid of any content whatsoever, save, of course, for the wallpaper.  It was a blank grey screen, and at its center was an emblem, purple and sharp, resembling a face, glaring and vengeful.  This was the symbol of the Decepticons.

He flung the tablet across his desk with an angry shout.

They were playing him!  They knew he’d figure out it was them; the tablet was nothing useful.  And worse, while he doubted there was anything hidden away in the device’s coding, he couldn’t risk missing anything.  He would have to devote precious resources into looking for something he doubted was there.  Damn the lot of them for this!

He rose from his desk, grabbing the tablet in the process, and stomped from the room in a huff.  There were some scientists he needed to see.

The science laboratories occupied basements one through three of the Onslaught Industries headquarters.  The elevator ride down from his forty-third floor office, however, was fairly quick.  As a private elevator, he didn’t have to deal with employees and visitors and all of the trivial comings and goings.  He was far too busy a mech for such things, least of all when running on borrowed time, as he was now.

He disembarked at basement two, and followed the familiar path to Jetfire’s private office.  The scientist in question sat at his desk, deeply engrossed in some program he was working on, as he usually was.  This sight was a familiar one to Onslaught; Jetfire was incredibly good at what he did, and his work ethic was unmatched.  It was why Onslaught had set him to working on defensive measures, should worse come to worst.  Today, however, Jetfire wasn’t alone in the lab.  

Leaning against the back of Jetfire’s chair was Brainstorm, another science-inclined flier, whose work ethic was questionable at best, yet whose actual work output was beyond superior.  Onslaught didn’t know how he managed it, but his constant reality-bending inventions were the sole reason he hadn’t yet been fired.  At the moment, he seemed to be bothering Blast Off, blathering on about topics that were, frankly, over Onslaught’s head.  Onslaught narrowed his optics as he approached, not at all pleased.

“Ah, Jetfire, Brainstorm,” he greeted, ‘causing both to jump to attention.  “Hard at work, I see.”

Jetfire shot Brainstorm a sharp glare.  “Well, at least one of us is.”

“Nonsense,” Brainstorm laughed, not intimidated in the slightest.  “My data on Project: Bruticus is compiling.  There’s not much for me to do at the moment but oversee Jetfire’s work.”

“Distract Jetfire, more like,” Jetfire griped, blue eyes pleading for Onslaught to come save him.  He was in luck.

“I have just the job for you then, Brainstorm,” Onslaught smiled.  He pulled the Decepticon tablet from his subspace, and Brainstorm, curious as ever, bounced over to investigate, taking it from Onslaught’s loose grip.

“What is this?” he asked.

Onslaught shrugged.  “It came from the Decepticons.”  Both scientists perked up at that.

“The ones who you think are after you?” Brainstorm asked, flicking the device on.  “Funny, it’s empty.  Why would they send you an empty tablet?”

“That’s what I want you to find out,” said Onslaught, earning a curious stare from Brainstorm.  “Since you have nothing better to do at the moment, I would like you to take this thing apart, scrutinize every circuit for something,  _ anything _ that would warrant them dropping it on my doorstep.  I can’t imagine they’d waste resources on some vague joke.”  Well, Soundwave and Shockwave wouldn’t.  Starscream, he was less sure about.

“Yes sir!” Brainstorm said.  “You can count on me, sir!”  Tablet in hand, he scurried back to his station and got to work, leaving Onslaught and Jetfire in peace.  Onslaught approached his scientist, resuming Brainstorm’s previous position.

“So, it sounds like Brainstorm is ahead of schedule.  What about you?”

Jetfire’s wings stiffened; he kept his optics locked on his computer screen.  It didn’t look promising.  “I’ve run into some difficulty, I admit.”

“Difficulty?” Onslaught asked, his hands tightening on the back of Jetfire’s chair.  “How so?”

This time, Jetfire did turn to look.  To his credit, he didn’t appear scared  – annoyed,  more like.  Onslaught was willing to bet he’d been at this for hours with little success.  “It’s the blasted processor.  No matter how many simulations I try, I can’t create a processor that is powerful enough to run a machine of the size you’re looking for.  By my calculations, we’d need something like, five or six high-powered processors in order to facilitate autonomous operation.  But with each processor added comes the issue of conflicting subroutines.  And this is ignoring the fact that programming one processor in the time you’ve allotted us is pushing it.  Six will be impossible.”

“So you’re saying it can’t be done.”  Onslaught frowned behind his mask.  Project: Bruticus was their last line of defense.  If it wasn’t ready in time, then Onslaught may as well give himself up to the Decepticons here and now.  He had no other way of protecting five bots, not to mention the majority of his assets from an enemy of unknown force.

_ Five bots. _

Come to think of it . . .

“What if we use pre-existing processors?” he asked, earning a confused stare from Jetfire.

“Forgive me for asking, sir, but how exactly do you intend on coming across these processors?  I can’t condone murd  – ”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Onslaught interrupted, waving off the concern.  “I was thinking of hooking live subjects into the system.”

Jetfire pondered this for a moment, his lips pursed.  “Well,” he said, at length, “it  _ could _ work, but it’s risky.  You may well overload the power cells anyway, depending on how well Brainstorm’s integration software runs.  And well, that still presents the issue of conflict.  In order to find five bots who can operate in sync well enough to run this machine, you would need   – well, I’d say a five-way-split-spark bot, which . . . I honestly don’t know if such a thing even exists?”

“What about slaving four of the minds to one overmind?” Onslaught pressed.  

“Well,” Jetfire said, his frown deepening, “it  _ could _ work, but I imagine efficiency would be lowered.  And you would still need to find bots that are unprecedentedly close.”  He paused, staring up at Onslaught with dawning realization.  “Did you have someone in mind?”

Onslaught smiled behind his mask.  “It is myself, Blast Off, Vortex, Brawl, and Swindle who are at risk here for our actions in the past.  It would only make sense for us to operate the defense grid together, don’t you think?”

“I  – maybe.  I’m not sure it will be ready in time.”

“Make it ready in time,” Onslaught ordered, backing off.  Jetfire gave a shaky nod and returned to his monitor.

“Y-yes sir.”

It would be done.  If anyone could do this, it would be Jetfire and Brainstorm.  He’d invested in the best of the best engineers money could buy.  They wouldn’t let him down.

With that goal accomplished, it was time to move onto other items on his agenda.  Threats from Decepticons were one thing, but he still had a business to run.  He had clients to meet with, contracts to file, and reports to look over.  As much as he didn’t like it, he returned to his office, woke up his computer, and got to work, trying his hardest to ignore the growing sense of dread that filled his tanks.

That was when his comm pinged  – Snow Cat this time, an obnoxious Rotary from the search and rescue crew.  Onslaught hadn’t expected a call so soon.  There was no way the team had done much searching by this point, and if that was the case, then there must have been something definitive at the site of Blast Off’s last known coordinates.  

Onslaught braced himself, before sending over his reply.  [ _ Yes? _ ]

[ _ Sir! _ ] Snow Cat barked, followed by an unnerving laugh.  Primus, Onslaught hated Rotaries.  He’d never met a single Copter that wasn’t completely unhinged.

[ _ Did you find him? _ ] Onslaught shot back, a warning in his tone.   _ Stay focused, _ it said.

[ _ Ah, well, sort of sir! _ ]

Onslaught’s tanks fell.  What did that mean?  What had happened to Blast Off?  And why was he so very upset by the prospect that something had happened to his second?  Fingers grew taut around the arms of his chair, and his optics glowed brightly in a barely-suppressed rage.  But when he spoke, it was with a forced calmness.  [ _ Sort of? _ ] he repeated.  [ _ What, pray tell, does that mean? _ ]

[ _ It means ‘sort of!’ _ ] Snow Cat laughed, unthreatened.  Stupid Rotary.  [ _ We didn’t find Blast Off himself, or Brawl for that matter, but we did find pieces.  You know, an arm here, a pipe there . . . That sort of stuff! _ ]

Frag!  Frag, frag, frag!  He couldn’t lose Blast Off!  Blast Off was too important  – to his business, to his cause, to his new security project!  If those Primus-damned Decepticons had taken his most valuable ally from him then  – then  – he didn’t know what he’d do.  There was almost certainly no surviving this Decepticon threat without Blast Off, and he didn’t have enough time to make another plan, at least not one with a high probability of success.  

But wait . . .

[ _ Pieces, _ ] he murmured, so softly, he was surprised that Snow Cat heard it.

[ _ Yes sir.  Lot’s of ‘em! _ ]

[ _ Anything major? _ ]

[ _ Nah.  Just random bits.  Looks like he crashed out here, then  _ _ – _ _ I dunno, I guess someone must have moved him?  Whatever the case, he ain’t here. _ ]

That was . . . maybe not good, but certainly better than hopeless.  If there was no body, that meant Blast Off might still be alive.  Not unharmed, and not safe, but maybe alive.  There was still a chance that all was not lost!  There was still a chance to redeem this horrible mess of a situation.  

[ _ Snow Cat, _ ] he said, slowly, deliberately.

[ _ Yes sir? _ ]

[ _ Keep searching.  Turn over every rock in that canyon until you find Blast Off and Brawl.  If they are in unfriendly hands, then feel free to cut those hands off.  Do not come back, until the two of them are safe in our custody.  Do you understand? _ ]

There was a pause on Snow Cat’s end, as though he were putting the two teeny tiny electrical impulses he called a brain module to work for a change.  [ _ Ah, what if they’re dead, sir? _ ]

For once, Onslaught refused to think of the possibility.  [ _ Do.  You.  Understand?! _ ]

[ _ Y-yes sir!  I’ll leave no stone unturned sir!  Snow Cat out! _ ]

Onslaught slumped forward on his desk, shoulders shaking, spark flaring.  His days were numbered, his mechs, divided, his chances of survival, low.  He’d survived vorns of war, dismal odds, certain death, and come out of it unscathed, but this time?  This time, he wasn’t sure they’d all make it.  This time, he was terrified.

A light chuckle escaped him, and then another, and another, until he’d thrown his head back, cackling as though he’d completely lost his mind.  And perhaps he had.  But it was all so funny, that after coming so far, it would all end here.

Like the Pit it would!

Onslaught would do all in his power to eradicate these stupid, haughty Decepticons from existence, even if if killed him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear, Snow Cat is Armada Cyclonus, not the yodeling snow plow from Energon. I just didn't want confusion, since G1 Cyclonus already exists.


	10. Day 3: Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blast Off needs to be pieced back together.

It was a cold night in Praxus.  Dark clouds gathered in the sky overhead, promising an unhealthy helping of acid rain in a few hours’ time.  Blast Off hoped Vortex and Brawl would be done by then. Having his plating slowly eaten away by the elements was not high on his to-do list, and while his thick, shuttle armor would protect him well, the subsequent patchwork and repaint was sure to cost a pretty penny.  He should have gone in with the others.

But Blast Off hadn’t gone in.  Blast Off was many things: haughty, well-bred, soft-spoken.  What he wasn’t, was a common thug. He may have long-since grown past the point of shying away from physical violence, but that didn’t mean he wanted to watch Vortex and Brawl’s ‘Bad Cop, Worse Cop’ routine for himself.  He was the getaway driver, and had every intention of fulfilling that role and nothing else.

He’d dropped his companions off at a nice house in the middle of an upscale Praxian neighborhood on the outskirts of town some two hours ago and had been lurking on the street corner ever since.  He was a patient mech by nature, but honestly, how long did it take to get a turncoat to spill the identity of just who he’d been double dealing with?

There was a sudden screaming, pained and intense.  It had been a good twenty minutes since he’d last heard any, muffled enough that the neighbors would be unlikely to hear it from behind their own thick walls.  Still, Blast Off thought it sloppy. He shouldn’t have been able to hear anything at all. It seemed that Vortex wasn’t bringing his A game today.

He paid the noises no mind, instead consulting his chronometer.  If they finished up in the next ten minutes, he would still have time to squeeze in a nice oil bath, a cube of Protian Elite, and a few episodes of his favorite drama,  _ Stuck in Alt Mode, _ before bedtime.  What was the point of wealth and power, after all, if you couldn’t enjoy yourself? 

The screaming stopped, and a few minutes later, Vortex came trudging out of the house, with a confused Brawl in tow.  He approached with purpose, clean and collected, and bearing no sign of the torture he’d no doubt inflicted on his unfortunate victim – not that Blast Off expected any.  Vortex was a professional, after all. Brawl, on the other hand, while physically unmarred, kept looking back towards the house, as though he’d left something behind. Primus, Blast Off hoped not.  Working under the nose of Praxian law enforcement was difficult enough without Brawl leaving clues as to what, exactly, had gone down.

“How did it go?” Blast Off asked, as the two drew near.  Only Vortex seemed to hear. He folded his arms over his flat chest and fixed a bitter stare on the ground.  “Do you even have to ask?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Let’s just get outta here.  I never liked the smell of Praxus anyway.”

Blast Off wasn’t about to protest.  He transformed to alt mode to let the others board, and while Vortex was quick to trudge through his cargo bay doors, Brawl was still casting suspicious glances back towards the house.

“Everything okay?” Blast Off prompted, causing Brawl to jolt upright and whirl around, fists ready to throw a blow.  He was quick to calm, however, once his brain caught up.

“Uh, yeah, yeah . . . yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Blast Off shot back.  “And sick bots don’t ride in the getaway vehicle.  You know how I feel about semi-processed energon on the interiors.”

Brawl shook his head.  “Oh, no. No, I ain’t gonna purge or nothin’ like that.  I just . . .” he trailed off, his gaze back in the direction they’d come from, even though the house was out of sight. 

“I don’t have all night Brawl,” Blast Off sighed, shuddering his cargo bay doors, in an effort to draw Brawl’s attention.  Inside, he could feel Vortex getting cozy in the cockpit, even as his energy field continued to emanate irritation. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences.

“Sorry!” Brawl jerked to attention.  “I just – I ain’t never seen Tex so brutal before.  I seen a lot in this job, but that was just . . . urgh.”

“Don’t purge,” Blast Off repeated.

“I ain’t gonna purge!”  Offended, Brawl scurried onboard, as best as a tank could scurry, and took his seat at the back of the cargo bay, as far from Vortex as he could get.  With everyone seated, Blast Off was flying off into the night, visions of his relaxing evening on his mind. 

His alt mode wasn’t exactly the least conspicuous thing in the world, but it was big and it was fast, and boasting the pinnacle of cloaking technology and sound dampeners, he was about as discreet as a shuttle could be.  Had the target been even a little further into the city, Blast Off would have been stationed at a distant rendezvous point, but there was plenty of space for take off in this neck of the woods, and frankly, Blast Off was glad that he hadn’t needed to prolong the rendezvous.

They arrived in Kaon within the hour, and were back in Onslaught’s office twenty minutes later, ready to report.  Vortex was quick to take a seat atop Onslaught’s desk, rifling with the tablets there as he spoke, much to Onslaught’s irritation.

“It’s the third one this week,” he sighed, letting a tablet containing this week’s sales data fall out of his hands, where it landed on the desk with a soft clatter. 

Onslaught glared, but didn’t chastise him for it.  “It is getting to be quite the hassle,” he said, pulling each of Vortex’s discarded tablets into a neat pile.  “I do hope you’ve learned something though.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged; now browsing through a list of recent mergers and acquisitions.  “It’s a group calling themselves the Decepticons.”

Blast Off was certain he’d heard the word somewhere, on some news program or another maybe.  Naturally, Onslaught was more familiar with the term.

“Hmm, it seems they’ve been gaining more and more traction lately.”

“You think?” Vortex snorted.  “Fanatics is what they’re breeding up in there.  Boring, job-stealing fanatics. I swear, it’s like they think he’s a real god, or something.”  This time, he dropped the week’s payroll log on the desk to his side.

“From what I understand,” Onslaught said, at last snatching the remaining tablets from Vortex’s lap before he could break something.  Vortex didn’t even seem to notice. “Megatron is quite the persuasive speaker.”

Blast Off perked up.  “Megatron?”

“The gladiator,” Brawl supplied, a smug satisfaction about him.  He must have been so proud: knowing something that Blast Off didn’t.  “Yeesh, even I know that.”

Blast Off didn’t bother dignifying Brawl’s attitude with a reply.  He turned to Onslaught. “You’re saying this gladiator became the leader of some kind of cult, and that they’ve been stealing our suppliers, smugglers, and Underworld contacts?”

“Pretty much,” Vortex sighed, slumping forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  “He’s a pretty popular guy with the lower castes. Advocating equal rights for the slum dwellers – kinda like Onslaught before he sold out.”

“He’s a terrorist, is what he is,” Onslaught hissed, with perhaps a little more venom than was necessary.  Someone was defensive, it seemed. “And he’s getting in the way.”

“Hey, no argument from me, big guy,” Vortex replied, raising his hands to pacify.  Onslaught could be scary when he was mad. The gesture seemed to work, however; the fire in his eyes was quick to extinguish itself.

“Perhaps its high time we reached out to them.”

Blast Off frowned.  “Reach out? Are you suggesting we work with the Decepticons?”

“Perhaps.”  Onslaught’s face was unreadable behind his mask, but there was no hiding the conspiratorial tone in his voice.

“You can’t be serious,” Blast Off groaned.  “You said it yourself, they’re terrorists. Allying ourselves with criminals is one thing, but teaming up with these ‘Decepticons’ is just asking for trouble.”

“Maybe so,” Onslaught shrugged.  “And I doubt it will come to that.  But just in case, I think we’d do well to reach out to them.  Vortex, if you will . . .”

The world around Blast Off began to fade away, the faces of his long-time companions transforming to waves of light and color before dissipating altogether, leaving only the blackness of some dark location in their place.  It hadn’t been real – a dream, a memory. Whatever the case, Blast Off was back to reality now, and reality hurt.

What remained of his limbs had been forced into stasis, energon trickled from a hole in the side of his chest, he was scraped up and dented across every available surface, his head throbbed and his vision blurred.  Being awake was agony; he would have taken the chance to pass out again, were he not so worried about his current status. After all, he vaguely remembered his flight back from Praxus – not the one he’d taken one hundred years prior, but the one from earlier today ( _ was _ it today?), with Brawl in tow.  One moment he’d been in the air zipping back towards Kaon, the next, he’d felt the lasers pierce his hull, felt himself knocked out of alt mode, fall some six miles back to the ground, and then, nothing.  Where exactly had he landed, and who had shot him?

“Argh!  He wasn’t supposed to wake up yet.  You! Get me more sedative.”

“Which one is that?” came a voice, more familiar than the first.  Was that Brawl?

“The purple one, you idiot.  Hurry! I can’t have him awake in the middle of an operation!”

Blast Off tried to catch sight of the mech who was talking, but try as he might, he couldn’t make sense of what he saw.  A deep, rich voice warmed his audials, but accompanying it was nothing more than a bleary field of red – red, like Onslaught’s eyes.

It must have been Onslaught, then.  He was at home, safe in the capable hands of his leader.  With a smile on his lips, he gave up the fight against sleep, and allowed the world to grow black once more. 

~~~

Blast Off hated these parties.  While he no doubt understood the importance of entertaining their most powerful of clients – strengthening ties and maintaining their ever-precarious position of power in the region – socializing had never been his strongest suit.  He was aloof, wealthy, and more than a little disdainful of those around him; he should have fit right in, and yet he couldn’t help but see Onslaught’s guests as spoiled protoforms, blathering away about their inane business practices, and deplorable social lives.  It would have been preferable to lock himself away in a cupboard for the next hundred years than hang around here any longer.

Vortex made things worse.  He’d insisted on mingling – fine.  He’d insisted on dancing – fine. He’d insisted on flirting – fine.  The trouble was, Blast Off had been assigned to babysit, and as such, had found himself on the receiving end of the overbearing Rotary’s attentions.

“Where’d you learn to dance?” Vortex snorted, forcing the pair into a spin.  He had no room to talk, honestly. Blast Off had been trained in ballroom dance at the Academy back on Altihex station, right alongside his Alpha-caste brothers.  Vortex, meanwhile, had been ‘trained’ in the sketchy night clubs of lower Kaon. Incidentally, Vortex was also the one who was missing steps and falling off rhythm.  Then again, Blast Off didn’t care enough to protest – about the unsynchronized dancing, at least. There were always other, more prevalent things to complain about with Vortex.

“Watch the hands,” he warned, prompting the too-bold appendages of one shameless Rotary to scurry away from where they’d been getting reacquainted with his aft.

“So boring,” Vortex retorted with a sigh, wrapping his arms instead around Blast Off’s neck, and trying his damndest to scoot them to the other side of the room for reasons Blast Off could not fathom.  He put up with the awkward swaying, stooping, and tripping over his own two feet for an admirable amount of time, but his patience could only hold out for so long.

“You do realize that  _ I’m _ the one who’s supposed to be leading here.”

Vortex looked up from his clumsy footwork to meet Blast Off’s eyes.  Laughter followed. “Why, ‘cuz you’re an Alpha?” he snickered. “Come on, where’s that rebellious spirit of yours?”

Presumably, he was alluding to Blast Off’s past decisions – the ones that had lead an Alpha Shuttle with a bright future ahead of himself, to relinquish a life of luxury to work for a Delta-caste Warframe.  Admittedly, Onslaught had gotten him farther than Altihex ever would have, but from a societally-acceptable perspective, it was an odd choice. Still, Blast Off had no desire to play that game with Vortex. “I couldn’t hazard a guess as to what you are talking about.”

“Well,” Vortex replied, rolling his eyes behind his visor, “if you’re so hung up on leading, then do something about it.”  He stopped in his tracks and gave up on supporting his own weight, instead dangling from Blast Off’s neck like some kind of oversized hood ornament.

It wasn’t difficult to break his hold, though the short fall to the floor and ensuing clang drew more than a few eyes their way.  Vortex didn’t seem to mind; he was back on his feet in an instant, no worse for wear.

“What’s wrong, Blasters?  Look at me – way out of line!  Someone oughta put me in my place.”  Then, without warning, he dove in close, wrapping his arms around Blast Off’s waist this time, and pressing their frames flush.  Primus, there was no stopping this idiot.

“I swear,” Blast Off groaned, attempting to pry the little parasite off of him, “you are such a Delta.”

“And you love it.”  His hands were exploring Blast Off’s back again, deft fingers investigating each line of his familiar frame as though it were something new and exciting.  It was forward, and inappropriate, and Blast Off had every intention of shaking Vortex off in hopes of saving at least a little bit of his dignity. Before he could do so, however, Vortex went and laid his helm against the swell of Blast Off’s chest, and damn it, he was much too cute to shove off now.  He knew Blast Off too well.

“Vortex, people are staring.”  It wasn’t entirely true – not anymore.  Every so often, a noble would spare the pair a condescending glance, but most folks had better ways to spend their time than watching their host’s inner circle flirt their way across the dance floor.

“Let them,” Vortex sighed.  It struck Blast Off as unlike him.

“What, no off-color retort this time?”

“Only if you want me to.”  His steps slowed, and his frame grew heavier, as he placed more of his weight on Blast Off.  “But I mean, I’ve missed you. Been so busy lately, it’s nice to just – I dunno, have a moment, I guess.”

“Please don’t fall asleep on me,” the request was a serious one, even if the tone was playful.  From the way Vortex’s field was fluctuating, having to carry an unconscious Rotary out of the ballroom was not beyond the realm of possibility – not that Blast Off would deign to do such a thing.  Still, the fact remained that, although he hid it well, Vortex was tired. Whatever it was Onslaught had him doing, it was clearly taking up his entire life. Come to think of it, Blast Off was fairly certain the pair hadn’t been in the same room since the night of that interrogation back in Praxus. 

“Please Blasters, can’t two frag buddies share an intimate moment in the middle of a hundred mechs without one of them calling foul?”

Blast Off glanced down at his smaller companion with a frown on his lips, hidden from Vortex by his mask.  “Don’t try to distract me with more banter,” he said, then with a hand on either of Vortex’s shoulders, he at last succeeded in prying the leech from his frame.  The action earned him an inept glare, which Blast Off promptly disregarded. “I admit, I’m a little worried about you.”

The glare dissipated quickly enough, and Vortex’s whole demeanor brightened.  “Aww, Blasters. That’s so sweet!”

“I’m serious, Vortex,” he groaned.  “I love Onslaught, but sometimes he gets too caught up in the mission to think of those around him.  So please, you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, won’t you?”

Vortex made a dramatic show of rolling his eyes once again.  However, he never got around to providing his no-doubt dismissive reply.  Whatever he saw beyond Blast Off’s back had him standing a little straighter, and shaking off Blast Off’s hands, shifting aside to get a better view. 

“Vortex?”

“Looks like they’re here.”

‘They,’ being the Decepticons, no doubt.  The ritzy party had seemed the perfect place to stage a meeting between Megatron and Onslaught’s own mechs.  It was still undoubtedly their own territory, with all of the advantages that provided, but at the same time, no one would look twice at a lower-caste mech, or even a criminal at a private party associated with  _ Onslaught _ .  Everyone here was a criminal to some degree, and everyone knew that Onslaught liked to surround himself with his old war buddies and Underground scum.  The great Megatron would be about as inconspicuous as he ever could be in a place like this.

Vortex scurried on ahead, and Blast Off was left with little choice but to follow him towards the trio of mechs looking varying levels of lost and disgusted, standing at the entrance to the hall.  At their head was Megatron, doubtless – a hulking grey mech, as bulky as Brawl, but larger than even Onslaught. He had no visible kibble on him, which wasn’t surprising given his history as a gladiator.  It was common to have extra pieces surgically removed to keep them from getting in the way in battle. At Megatron’s right was a Seeker, proud and smug as any Seeker, while at his left stood a boxy blue mech, whose alt mode Blast Off couldn’t quite discern. 

“Megatron, welcome to the party!” Vortex called out as soon as he was within range.  Megatron and the Seeker alike tensed at the greeting, but their suspicion quickly melted away to mere confusion upon confirming the identity of the speaker.  Luckily for Vortex. Blast Off had zero doubts as to who would win a showdown between the scrappy rotary and the greatest gladiator to have ever lived.

“I’m sorry,” said Megatron, his voice deep and gravelly, “who are you?”

Blast Off hurried to step in before Vortex could botch the introductions, or worse, cause a scene.  “I apologize for the indiscretions of my companion,” he said, bowing reverentially. “We are Onslaught’s representatives.  I am Blast Off, and this is Vortex.”

Confusion too, gave way, replaced with a confident smugness that Blast Off felt was woefully misplaced.  “Ah yes,” said Megatron, “it is good to finally meet you. I am, as you know, Megatron, and these are my . . . allies: Starscream,” he gestured towards the Seeker, “and Soundwave,” his other hand swept aside to indicate the boxy mech.  With introductions out of the way, Megatron took a moment to size up Blast Off and Vortex; whatever he saw didn’t appear satisfactory, if his narrowed eyes and downturned lips were any indication. “Though I admit, I was expecting Onslaught himself.”

Again, Blast Off hastened to reply before Vortex had the chance.  “I’m afraid Onslaught is a very busy mech. He is not in attendance tonight, but he does send his regards.”

“An elite who can’t even be bothered to attend his own party?” Starscream scoffed.  “Don’t mock us.”

“ _ Starscream _ ,” Megatron warned.  That was when Vortex hopped in, much to Blast Off’s horror.

“No mockery here,” he laughed, “Ons really is just that much of a workaholic.  Like, me and Brawl have this bet going that he’s got a recharge socket built in under his desk so that he can keep working twenty-six/ten.”

Starscream fixed Vortex with an unimpressed stare, but Vortex, in typical Vortex fashion, remained oblivious.  “So anyway, you get us tonight, but I promise, we’re a lot more fun than the real thing. Better looking too.”

Megatron glanced between the two, now wearing a smile on his lips, but the frown remained in his eyes.  “I suppose if that is how he desires it, there is nothing we can do, though I was hoping to meet him face-to-face.  He has truly been an inspiration. I might not even be fighting now, had he not first proven that it could be done.”

A pang of guilt struck Blast Off in the fuel tanks.  Once upon a time, Onslaught had been this very mech – fighting against a corrupt system in the best way he knew.  But somewhere along the way, Onslaught had been absorbed, forced to transform himself into the very thing he was fighting against, in order to keep fighting.  It had been a long time since he’d last professed any desire to contribute to the greater good. Onslaught’s goals had long since evolved beyond that point.

Blast Off wondered if the same would happen to Megatron sooner or later.

“Eh, who doesn’t find Onslaught inspirational?” 

Blast Off could’ve hit Vortex for that, but he refrained, if only because they were on the job.

Megatron recovered quickly from the flippant statement.  “I suppose there are many who would feel similarly. That is why I believe we should be allies.”

Blast Off and Vortex exchanged glances, for once on the same page.  Megatron had the wrong idea about Onslaught – he wanted to unite and fight for the greater good, no doubt benefitting from Onslaught’s immense power and resources in the process.  What Onslaught wanted, however, was probably a bit less noble.

“Allies,” Vortex repeated, once again beating Blast Off to the punch.  “I mean, it’s a distinct possibility.”

Wait, what?

Blast Off tried to shoot Vortex a warning glare, but that pesky little whirlwind was no longer paying him any attention.

“But I do so hate to discuss business while sitting around like some slack-jawed senator,” he laughed, ignoring the offended stares of their newest guests.  After all, it was hard to be offended when he’d busied himself with bounding forward to take Megatron’s hand. He was lucky the jumpy gladiator didn’t rip it off.

“Come on, let’s talk on the dance floor!”

Megatron stared at their joined hands, a confused tilt to his head, but the barest hint of a smile on his lips.  He was actually entertaining this madness! Starscream, prissy Seeker that he was, was the one to protest.

“You’re not taking us seriously.  I’d be careful not to underestimate us.  We are dozens strong, and getting stronger by the day.  We will not be discussing business while twirling around like a –”

“That’s enough, Starscream,” Megatron interrupted.  His gaze had shifted to Vortex’s face now, and his soft smile had twisted into an almost predatory grin.  “I think I will take you up on that offer. After you, Vortex.”

This was all a terrible mistake – Vortex’s actions, Megatron’s response.  As far as Blast Off was concerned, it was all going to come back one day and bite them in the aft.  What an irresponsible twit!

~~~

The pain in his chest was intense, enough so to pull him away from all thoughts of Megatron or fancy parties or jealousy.  Someone was rooting around in his chest, snipping wires, melting metal plating; it  _ hurt _ .  Fighting the sharp agony, Blast Off forced his optics back online, eager to see just who he needed to kill once he was back on his feet.

Surprise, surprise – it was Vortex.  He’d always been good with his hands, but an interrogator wasn’t a surgeon.  Whatever Vortex thought he was doing, he was no doubt making a mess of everything, and Blast Off had no qualms about telling him so.

“Vortesss, y’diot,” he groaned, barely coherent, despite his best efforts.  “Geddout m’chest!”

“Blast Off?”  It was not the voice of Vortex, but of Brawl that reached his audials.  What was Brawl doing here? “Hey! Hey, he’s waking up!” Brawl was much too loud; didn’t he realize that Blast Off was in pain?  Still, Vortex seemed to take the words to spark. He removed his hands from Blast Off’s chest, if only for a moment.”

“Whaddya –”

“Shh,” said Vortex in a voice that was not Vortex’s.  “Go back to sleep, Blast Off. We’re gonna fix you up.”

The world began to blur around him once again, and within seconds, Blast Off was back under.

~~~

He wasn’t in pain, and frankly, had no idea why he would be.  In fact, he was quite the opposite. Tonight was his first night off in three weeks, and he was enjoying the peace and quiet.  The hustle and bustle of Kaon weren’t ideal for a Shuttle; every so often, he needed a chance to wind down, to lose himself in the hypnotic spiral of his digital planetarium; to curl up on his airy hard-light bed; to read a good datapad and indulge in some far-too expensive high grade and just relax.  And he had done just that. Now, safe and satiated and as comfortable as he could possibly be outside of the welcome void of space, Blast Off was getting ready to retire for the night.

That was when he heard it.

_ THUD! _

The sound wasn’t foreign to him.  That heavy, substantial metal-on-metal boom was the exact noise made by a medium-sized, lightly-built frame (probably something made with mass-shifting in mind – a flight frame, for instance) hitting his front door.  Given that there was only one medium-sized flight frame who had any business being in the same vicinity as Blast Off’s condo, it wasn’t difficult to imagine just who the visitor was. Why he had chosen to run into the door rather than knock, however, was murkier.  Either he was drunk, injured, or looking to be an obnoxious aft, and Blast Off frankly had no idea which it was. He was going to have to check.

_ Leave it to Vortex to ruin my night. _

Blast Off had every intention of telling Vortex off.  As he opened the door, he even managed a cursory, “You’d better have a damned good reason for pulling me away from . . .”  That was as far as he got, however. 

As expected, on the floor was indeed Vortex.  Less expected was the energon that dripped from his arms, his face, his chest; or the shivers that wracked his frame; even the over-bright, manic look in his eye was unsettling.  The mech was Onslaught’s best interrogator, and a supremely effective assassin to boot. He wasn’t easily shaken, and he was not so sloppy as to leave evidence of his activities. To say Blast Off was alarmed by his partner’s current state was an understatement.

“Vortex, what happened?” he said, kneeling down to get on Vortex’s level.  “Are you okay?”

In typical Vortex fashion, a pair of arms flung themselves around Blast Off’s neck, dragging him in close.  They were quickly followed by a hungry mouth, planting kisses up and down his mask, his jaw, his throat cabling.  Shaken or not, this wasn’t the way Blast Off wanted to spend the night. Also, Vortex was gross right now. 

With little effort, Blast Off took Vortex’s hands in his own, and shoved him off.  “You look like you’ve been to the Pit and back,” he commented, taking note of Vortex’s fingers, several of which had been snapped off.  “Wait, this is . . .  _ your _ energon?”  He received a broken laugh for his efforts.

  Already, this was beyond what Blast Off was willing to deal with, but deal with it, he would.  He wasn’t about to be caught in public with a deranged maniac on his arm, and getting the authorities involved would end poorly for everyone.  He put in a cursory call to Onslaught, who couldn’t even be bothered to answer, then grabbed a handful of rotors and dragged Vortex’s dead weight inside.

The first stop was the wash racks.  Vortex was still leaking an unsettling amount of energon; already, a trail of gleaming pink stained Blast Off’s pristine floors, marking their path as they made their way across the front room.  Blast Off was going to have to deep clean his condo after this – fan-freaking-tastic.

He dropped Vortex on the floor and turned on the water, watching the energon slide from that broken frame, pooling around the drain at their feet as a thick, iridescent sludge.  Disgusting.

“So, you wanna tell me what happened?”

Vortex said nothing, which would have been a small miracle on any other day, but right now, it was not what Blast Off wanted.

“I’m guessing assassination gone wrong.  Even  _ you _ aren’t dumb enough to walk away from an interrogation looking like that.”

Vortex shivered, but remained silent.

“You can tell me you know,” Blast Off tried, crouching down to get back on Vortex’s level.  Mercifully, Vortex didn’t try to kiss him again. “You know me; I’m not going to go blabbing this to anyone, unless Onslaught told you to keep it on the DL?”

Vortex shook his head.  At last, progress.

“I’m worried, Vortex,” he tried again.  “I can’t think of a time that I’ve ever seen you like this.  Frankly, it’s a little scary.”

For whatever reason, it was the admission that did it.  For the first time since arriving in the washracks, Vortex lifted his gaze from the pool of energon bubbling around the drain, and instead looked Blast Off in the eye.  He wasn’t shaking anymore, and the glow of his optics had dimmed, closer to its normal brightness. But even with the mask and visor, Blast Off could tell that he wasn’t entirely here at the moment, and while Blast Off was normally content with letting the world pass him by, he had to wonder just what had happened to upset Vortex so.

“The Decepticons,” he muttered at last, barely audible over the fall of the water. 

Blast Off frowned.  “What, Megatron’s gang?  They did this to you?”

Vortex shrugged and cast his gaze back downwards.  “They’re finished.”

~~~

There was a banner on the wall, nondescript, save for the image of an angular, purple face in the center: the symbol of the Decepticons.  One hundred years ago, at Onslaught’s behest, Vortex had somehow managed to erase the rebel group from the face of Cybertron. Allegedly. Yet despite his assurances that every last mech associated with the organization had been weeded out and destroyed, here they were, going strong even after all this time.

Well, ‘going strong,’ may have been a bit much.  It was clear to Blast Off that he was in some kind of cave.  The welds over his chest were rough, his reattached limbs felt as though they may dislodge themselves at a moment’s notice, and their sedatives were clearly not that effective, if the number of times Blast Off had woken up mid-operation was any indication.  Still, these mechs were powerful enough to have shot him out of the sky, and they were well-stocked enough to fix him up afterward. The only question was: why.

“Oh, you’re finally awake.” 

Blast Off let his head lull to the side, taking in Brawl’s appearance for the first time.  He looked a bit worse for wear, but was ultimately alive and in one piece; that was all that mattered.  He was seated by a corner which appeared to lead out into some corridor beyond, but once he saw Blast Off moving, he got up to replant himself closer.

“Where are we?” Blast Off groaned.  Talking hurt more than he’d expected it to; his vocaliser protested at every vibration, as though he’d punctured a hole in the thing.  Primus, he hoped not.

“Decepticon base,” Brawl shrugged, “somewhere in the middle of the Sonic Canyons.  They shot us down on the way back, but we didn’t die, which is good, though you were kinda in pieces for awhile there.”  He laughed, which earned him a sharp glare from Blast Off.

“Err, yeah.  Anyway, I got the two of us to this cave, and I met this little Speedster Con doctor – ‘Con doctor’ – I like that.”

“Brawl,” Blast Off hissed, urging him on.

“Ah, right.  So I convinced him to put you back together, and here you are: back together.  Though we’re still stuck in the middle of nowhere with no way of contacting the outside world.  And Vortex is still in jail, I guess. Oh, and Ons don’t got a clue that we’re here. So uh . . . what do we do now?”

Frankly, scheming was beyond Blast Off at the moment, but he was still better off than Brawl in that respect.  He rolled his head until he was facing the ceiling once more, and let out a broken, rattling sigh from his abused vents.  “Where’d the doctor go?”

“Off to grab some supplies or something,” Brawl guessed.  “I dunno, wherever doctors go when they’re not doctor-ing.”

Blast Off silently cursed Brawl for letting their enemy out of his sight.  For all they knew, he’d gone off to find some reinforcements. If that was the case, all of that operating would have been for nothing.

“Do they know who we are?” Blast Off tried.

“Uh . . . maybe?”

Blast Off offlined his optics, trying to fight off the encroaching headache.  “Great.”

“So what do we do?”  Brawl was far too cheerful for the situation at hand.  Right now, the Decepticons held all of the cards. Brawl and Blast Off were invalids at best, and at worst . . .

He thought back to Vortex on that night all those years ago, broken and drenched in energon, hunched over in front of his door.  He never had found out just what had happened to Vortex on that night, or the Decepticons, for that matter, but it was clear now that those events were, no-doubt at the center of everything – from Onslaught’s warning letter to their own current predicament.  Onslaught’s team had declared war on that group of low-life terrorists, and now Blast Off and Brawl were at their mercy. Interrogation, revenge, torture – there was a very bleak future ahead of them indeed.

At last, Blast Off sighed, allowing his frame to fall lax, defeated.  In their situation, there was nothing they could do to save themselves.  Onslaught may have been able to pull it off, or Vortex, or even Swindle, but Blast Off was socially stunted, and Brawl was an idiot.  At this point, all they could do was wait and hope for the best.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, unsure if Brawl actually heard him.  “I just . . . don’t . . . know.”

  
  



End file.
